Complicated
by LuckyShmucky
Summary: There is a thin line between love and hate, and when it is crossed everything becomes...complicated.
1. Default Chapter

Everyone was being slain around her. The scarlet blood of her fellow priests and priestesses stained the cool floors of the sacred temple. She waited for the final blow that would end her life as well, but it never came. She remained frozen in her hiding place, almost wishing that she'd been the first to fall so that she didn't witness this massacre. But something was holding her back, some invisible force that wouldn't allow her to reveal herself to the enemy. Some voice, faint but astoundingly powerful, forced her to keep still and persevere. She'd survive, it told her. She'd live, and the nightmares would eventually subside. She'd be almost pure once more and the temple of Apollo would once again glisten with pride. She almost believed that voice, until she turned her gaze to one particular warrior. Murderer would actually befit him more.

The Trojan priests fell around him with barely any attempt on his part. His movements were flawless, as if he'd been born to kill. His arms of steel cut down innocent men and women faster than he took in breaths. His long, golden hair peeked from under his helmet, and for a fleeting moment complete, absolute rage filled her. She wanted to take him by his godforsaken hair, wanted to pull his head back and slit his throat. In that moment she felt her soul leave her body, the calm, loving soul that could never hurt anyone. In that moment, as she watched him spill innocent blood over the sacred grounds, she became one of them. She became barbaric, unfeeling, and thirsty for revenge.

But the rage left her the instant it arrived, and the intensity of the moment caused her to rock back on her bare heels until her shoulders hit the wall behind her. She closed her eyes and tried to banish the screams of agony and defeat, tried to banish the image of him from her mind, but she couldn't. She saw gold and then she saw murder, and it burned her everywhere. It burned her to know that such a man existed in this world who was only designed to kill. She slowly slid down the length of the wall until she hit the ground, her whole body rocking violently with the sobs she tried to suppress.

Because her head was buried in her knees she didn't see them storming toward her, their hands bloody and their faces twisted in expressions of fury and victory. She only gasped when she felt a rough pair of fingers, almost like logs, lodge themselves underneath her armpits and lift her to her feet. She looked up at the soldier then, fear slicing down her spine when she read murder in his startling green eyes. A band of four or five more soldiers formed behind her captor, eyeing her furiously.

"Kill her!" One of them roared, and she shut her eyes to save herself a shred of dignity before she died.

"Kill the whore!" Someone else howled, but the blow never came.

The soldier shook her violently, forcing her to open her eyes. "Hello there, princess," he said with an evil grin.

Her eyebrows arched dangerously as anger filled her. "Just end it," she hissed, restraining herself from spitting in his face.

He shook his head. "Now that wouldn't be any fun, would it? I think you'd make a wonderful present for our leader."

"I'd rather burn," she drawled back at him.

"That can be arranged!" she heard a savage voice yell from somewhere around her.

"We'll let Achilles decide on that," her captor said finally, turning toward the doors and pulling her along.

She struggled against him, but he proved far too strong for her small body to overpower. She'd never known fear like she did at that moment because, from what she'd heard about Achilles, she knew he was a monster. As the bulky soldier dragged her across the beach she'd once ran around on, laughing happily with her cousins, she began to pray to the gods to save her from the predicament she'd soon find herself in, even if it was with death. She knew that even death would be better than being presented to Achilles so that he could do with her as he pleased.

As they neared the large, black tent, Briseis gave up on praying for death. The gods had decided to put her through this ordeal, she decided, for whatever reason and they would most definitely aid her. Somewhere between the temple and Achilles' tent, she'd been given newfound strength and defiance. She began to walk a little slower and twist a little more, until the soldier that held her finally turned around and slapped her across the face. She felt the sting course throughout her body, and after the shock of it subsided, she could feel a warm liquid trickling from her nose.

"You'd better behave yourself, Princess, cause he's a lot less patient than I am," the soldier told her, shoving her into the tent.

She froze when she saw him. His armored back was turned to her as he busied himself with a wash towel. She watched as every single muscle in his arms rippled while he washed away the dirt and the blood from his skin. She found her eyes wandering down his body, her mind outlining his powerful thighs and calves. Catching herself a moment later, a deep blush colored her face and she looked away, remembering that even in captivity she was still a priestess, devoted only to the gods. Besides, this man, this monster was responsible for the murder of so many...too many.

She stumbled forward as her captor pushed her suddenly, and Achilles jerked around to see who'd made the noise. His eyes locked with hers and his gut clenched. He couldn't look away for that deafening second when all he heard was his thundering heartbeat and all he saw were her glittering brown eyes.

"My Lord," the soldier who'd dragged her there began, jolting him out of his reverie.

Achilles looked away from the young woman, focusing his gaze on the man who'd spoken. "What's this?" he demanded.

"A prize. For you."

His eyes narrowed. "Where did you find her?"

"Apollo's Temple. She was the only woman there."

Achilles looked at the girl carefully. "A priestess," he murmured. He turned back to his soldiers. "What do you want me to do with her?"

The captor released her and smiled. "Amuse yourself," he said, and turned to leave.

He faced the girl again, who was now sitting in the farthest corner of the tent. She wouldn't look at him, and quite honestly he didn't know what to tell her when she did. He moved to the washbasin and splashed water on his sweaty face. He then removed the armor from his torso, too aware of the uncomfortable silence that enveloped them.

"What is your name?" he asked, looking at her, but she remained silent. He splashed water across his chest and arms, attempting to clean the dirt from the battle. "I asked you a question," he said after a while, yet he received no response once again. He took a handful of water and threw it in her direction, but she didn't even flinch. Shaking his head, he tried not to smirk at her stubbornness. "Even priestesses have names," he declared, mostly to himself as he loosened the armor around his waist.

"War is just a game to you," Briseis finally spoke, looking up at the exact wrong moment as he stood completely naked in front of her. Her eyes widened in shock as a deep blush crept up her face. Did he have no decency at all? Wasn't he aware that she'd never seen a man even half-naked, much less completely exposed? Or was he as used to shamelessness as he was to murder?

Achilles looked at her, amused. He reached for a black toga and tied it around his waist and then made his way to where she was sitting. He leaned over to stare into her face. "You're royalty, aren't you?" He inquired darkly. When she gave him no reply, he leaned in closer and took a lock of her long brown hair in his hand, lifting it to his nose. He felt her shiver, or thought that he felt her shiver, and when the scent of her brimmed in his nostrils, he almost shivered himself. He stood straight and stepped away from her. "Definitely royalty," he concluded.

Briseis kept quiet, her hands holding onto her knees so tightly that her knuckles had gone white. Achilles tried to suppress a small smile, but failed.

"Are you afraid of me?" He asked finally, and swallowed when she looked at him.

"Should I be?"

Her brown eyes bore into his, into him, and he looked away. She was making him feel something, something unfamiliar, and he didn't like it. "You don't have to be afraid. You're safe here." Realizing what he'd just said, he smirked. "You're the only Trojan who I can say that to."

"I am not afraid of you," she told him firmly, proudly. "I know the gods will protect me."

Achilles moved back to where he'd been sitting. "The gods?" He demanded doubtfully. "Where are they now?"

"The gods have their own will. They work in mysterious ways."

He nodded, not out of agreement, but out of habit. "Why did you choose to become a priestess? Serve the gods your whole life? Hmm?" He looked down at his hands for a moment, then back up at her. "You have devoted everything to them. Even your love. I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I'm sure that you will find the romance entirely one-sided."

Briseis narrowed her eyes at him. "You know nothing about the gods. You are just a murderer."

The shock of her confession made him freeze and his hands clenched tightly at his sides. He stood up quickly, turning his back to her. "You need to learn to stop speaking down to men."

"Tell me something," she prodded, staring at his back. It was perfectly sculpted and defined, expanding each time he took a breath. And it did something to her insides that she dared not admit. "Why did you decide to become a soldier?"

He was unable to face her, unable to look into those accusing eyes that only told the truth. "I didn't choose it," he said at last, his voice gruff. "I was born, and this is what I am."

"Do you like to kill?"

He spun around with fiery eyes. "Do you like to provoke?"

Her mouth hung open as she fumbled to find a retort. He kept on looking at her, and something passed between them in that moment, something that sent a shiver down her back. Right there and then he looked almost human, and she could almost forget the blood she'd seen spilled by his hands. She saw him swallow slowly, the Adam's apple dancing in front of her eyes, and it made her nervous. She looked away, unable to be the victim of those piercing eyes for another moment. She'd never seen blue like them before, bluer than the Aegean, and she was afraid that she somehow found them beautiful. He was her enemy, she knew that, but her conscious grip on the fact seemed to loosen every time their eyes met and it terrified her.

Achilles looked at the top of her head. His eyebrows narrowed as he tried to process what had just passed between them, but he'd never felt anything like it before and so he couldn't understand it. She was the most defiant, most proud woman he'd ever seen, and he found that he liked it. She had life inside of her, even in captivity, and wouldn't accept the end until it swallowed her whole. He was afraid to admit it, but she reminded him of himself. Defiant, strong, proud. Only her traits were a little less rough around the edges. The speculation tugged at his lips, and a small smile enveloped them. She was a Trojan priestess, he a Greek warrior, and yet they stood on equal ground. Even if the world forgot this war, he now knew that he never would. He was about to turn back and say something to her when a soldier poked his head into the tent.

"My lord, your king wants to see you."

"He is not my king," Achilles said gruffly. "Tell him I'm coming." When the soldier left, he turned to the washbasin to clean himself. The Trojan woman was still huddled in the corner, her head turned away from him. He smiled as he washed the dirt from his skin, remembering that she'd probably never seen a naked man in her life. It was for shame, really, that such a beautiful woman should be deprived of all the pleasures she'd been created to enjoy. And she was beautiful, he could tell, even underneath the cuts and the fatigue that masked her face. Her innocence only intensified that beauty, unbeknownst to her. When he'd completely washed off all the marks from the battle and clothed himself, he turned to her.

"I will be back shortly. Nobody shall harm you while I'm gone." He stared at her, waiting for a response, but received none. Waving a frustrated hand in her direction, he dismissed her and left the tent.

Briseis looked up when he left. She had no idea what to do now, whether to flee or wait for him. Everything in her told her to run, even though she knew that she would probably meet a fate worse than this if she stepped foot outside the tent. But everything inside it terrified her. The Greek warrior, his ability to provoke her, and his impossible blue eyes. He was her enemy, and yet when he spoke to her she seemed to forget that. He made her feel something strange, something other than frustration and anger, and she didn't like it. But she had no other choice than to stay there. He'd promised her safety, and she believed him. She found, with a hint of fear, that she trusted him. And that was the worst part of it all.

Closing her eyes, Briseis leaned her back onto the pole and prayed. She prayed to the gods to protect her from the Greeks, and mostly she prayed to protect her heart from one particular Greek.


	2. Chapter Two

A/N: Thank you all for your wonderful replies. I posted the first chapter so quickly (I'd been previously threatened by a close friend) that I forgot to offer any explanations. The story is mostly the in-between of the scenes from the movie, when they should have shown us what Achilles and Briseis were thinking and doing, but didn't. You'd think after having seen the movie twice already I'd have all the right lines nailed, but I don't. I'm going mostly from (bad) memory, and purposely changing certain details. I'm not sure how long this is going to be, but as with all fanfic I've written, the story somehow figures itself out. Enjoy!

P.S. This one, too, is for my girl Rozi. Muah.

Achilles walked into Agamemnon's tent just as Nestor called him the king of kings. He snorted to himself, thinking of the man's treachery and hypocrisy. To say that Agamemnon lacked honor would be the understatement of the century. The man was ruthless, shameless, and merciless. He lived by absolutely no code but that of self-interest, and that made him dangerous even to the Greeks.

Nestor presented a sword, a spoil of war to Agamemnon, congratulating the king on his victory. He then stood from his kneeling position and left the tent, followed by Menelaus and a few other men. Odysseus was the last to exit, and on his way he paused to smile at his good friend. "Remember Achilles," he said while placing a hand on the warrior's shoulder, "war is nothing but young men dying and old men talking."

Achilles shook his head slightly as Odysseus passed by him. Once they were alone, he walked up to Agamemnon's throne and began, mockingly, "Congratulations, king of kings. You have won a great victory today."

"The beach of Troy belonged to Priam in the morning," Agamemnon replied, "and it belongs to Agamemnon in the afternoon." After a short pause he continued, "Your men sacked the Temple of Apollo."

"Anything you want from it is yours. My men don't care about the gold," Achilles told the haughty king.

"And neither do you," Agamemnon observed, standing from his throne. "You came to Troy for your own purpose, for glory."

"And glory shall be mine."

"You fool!" the king sneered. "History remembers kings, not soldiers. Your name shall die with your body. Agamemnon will live throughout the ages."

Achilles scoffed, turning his back to Agamemnon. "Anything you want from the temple is yours. Take all the gold, I don't care."

"I don't want the gold," the king retorted, approaching Achilles. "I already have my prize."

Achilles' face froze when he realized who he was referring to. His heart constricted painfully in his chest, and for a moment he found it difficult to breathe. The commotion from behind caused him to spin around, and rage engulfed him when he saw the priestess shoved roughly into the tent. When she looked up at him her eyes were calm, but he saw a slight glitter of fear dancing in the brown orbs. Time stood still when he saw the cut on her eyebrow, and yet another new one beside her lip.

Agamemnon observed him carefully. Achilles was just a fool who'd let a woman get to him, a virgin woman no less. It excited him to know that he'd found a weakness in the legendary warrior, something he could use to goad him on. He encircled the Trojan woman slowly, stopping by her side and lifting a lock of her hair to his nose. "You didn't tell me Achilles of this one particular spoil of war," he murmured, tilting his head to look at the shaken man.

"Release her, Agamemnon. Your dispute is with me."

"I can't do that. See, I'm the king, Achilles, I always have the upper hand." He snickered when he saw a muscle in Achilles' jaw tick. "I think I'll have her give me a bath tonight," Agamemnon continued, leaning into Briseis. "And after that...who knows?"

The image of the pig treating the priestess like a whore burned into his mind, and Achilles pulled out his sword. "Release her now," he commanded, slicing the sword through the air. "Release her!" He yelled, ready for bloodshed.

When Agamemnon's soldiers closed in on him, Briseis broke free from her captor and stepped forward. "Stop!" She yelled, and all eyes turned to her. "There has been enough slaughter today. I will not have anyone dying because of me." She turned to Achilles, whose chest was heaving. "If killing is your only skill, that is your curse," she told him, her words slashing though him, rendering him speechless.

Agamemnon jeered at the silent warrior. "Well, well. The mighty Achilles, silenced by a slave woman."

Achilles straightened in his spot, pointing the edge of his sword at the man he hated most in the world. "Before this war is over I will stand above your corpse and smile," he snarled before exiting the tent.

The walk across the beach was long and torturous. Images of the priestess, whose name he didn't even know, flashed in his mind and burned in places he didn't know existed. He trudged forward, the rage within him expanding with every step he took. He passed by one of his soldiers and took him by the arm. "We don't fight anymore," he said firmly, leaving no room for questions. As he approached his own tent, the rage bore down on him. He entered it furiously, knocking over the washbasin with a simple wave of his hand. He reached for anything he could find and threw it to the ground, satisfied when it split into a million pieces. When everything around him was in complete ruins, he slumped down into the corner the priestess had occupied and reached for his wine.

If killing is your only skill, that is your curse.

Her words echoed in his head, burning holes in his skull. For the first time in his life he was questioning everything, questioning the nature of his own existence. All because of a few words uttered by a Trojan priestess. All because of the too few looks she'd given hem. All because of her. He drowned his newfound, terrifying feelings in cup after cup of wine, until the intoxicating liquid began to calm his nerves. But every time he'd blink, her image would flash through his memory for a split second, and he was back to square one. He was back to feeling the impossible rage, but he was accustomed to rage. What he wasn't accustomed to was the fear. Fear for her and fear for how he'd cope if anything happened to her. He'd never felt fear before, and he now knew what he'd always known - he hated it. He hated being afraid. He'd do anything to erase the knowledge that she existed in the world, in his world, but he couldn't. And that scared him the most.

He took one last sip of wine and flung the silver cup across the tent. He had to get her back, here, in his tent where no man could touch her. No man but him. He had to get her back so she could look at him with those accusing eyes of hers and throw his banter right back at him. He had to have her back, have her innocence back and look upon her because as much as she irritated him, she calmed him all the more. She made him more human, and he'd never felt that way before. But mostly he just wanted her to be where he knew she'd be safe from harm. He wanted her with him, and no matter what he had to do he'd make it happen.

His thoughts were interrupted as someone stormed into his tent. It was Patroclus, and he was furious.

"You ordered the soldiers not to fight?" he demanded, staring at his cousin.

Achilles lifted his head slowly but uttered no reply.

"Don't you care that Greeks will die tomorrow? All because you can't stand Agamemnon."

"Have you ever been in battle, Patroclus?" Achilles asked the young man calmly.

Patroclus shifted on his feet. "No."

"Have you ever killed a man?"

"No."

"I have," Achilles said, looking away. "And there is nothing glorious about it. At night I see them, the faces of the men I've killed. They're standing across the river waiting for me. And they say 'welcome brother'."

"So you won't fight?"

"No," Achilles answered, looking at him again. "And neither will you. You are much too young."

"You taught me everything you know. I'm ready!"

"Patroclus, no," he said firmly.

"We're going to see them tomorrow. Falling, dying. And it will be on your shoulders."

"I think you should leave now."

"But-"

"Patroclus, go!" Achilles commanded, and the young man left furiously.

He leaned his head back on the pillar and closed his eyes. Where was she now? What was she doing? What was being done to her? The thoughts raided his mind, setting it on fire. If Agamemnon laid even a finger on her, he'd have the pleasure of slitting the bastard's throat himself. He'd make Agamemnon's death long and painful, and he'd smile. But even that, he now knew, wouldn't alleviate the anger of knowing she'd been hurt because of him. He'd promised her safety, but hadn't delivered. The events of the day bombarded him like a shower of fiery arrows, and he cowered underneath them.

"Are you afraid of me?" he asked.

"Should I be?"

"You don't have to be afraid. You're safe here."

He'd lied to her. He'd made her only one promise in the few hours that he'd known her, and he broke it. It didn't matter whether she'd believed him or not. It mattered that he'd believed it. And now he was sitting in his tent, alone and drunk. He'd been with so many women, too many women, but had never lingered too long on any one of them. Yet this particular one got deep under his skin, and he had no idea how to get her out. He didn't know if he even wanted to. He hadn't touched her, but she coursed through his veins like his very blood.

And that wasn't good.

Maybe it was her defiance. Maybe because it posed a challenge, and he loved challenges. Maybe it was because she reminded him of himself, more so than any other person he'd ever met. And it helped that she was a woman. She was a beautiful, smart, proud woman. She was everything he didn't know he wanted. Or needed.

He was an arrogant man, he knew that. He went through life caring for very few people and remembering even fewer. The masses were uninteresting and unworthy of his attention. Especially the women. To him they were beautiful, seductive, and replaceable. Very easily replaceable. Each new face was just a new body to warm his bed. They didn't intrigue him for any reason other than primal, male pleasure. And that's how he'd liked it. He'd though that it was enough. But after meeting the priestess, he knew that it wasn't.

It didn't even come close to being enough.

The Trojan woman, amidst all her innocence, actually had a personality that he cared to see. She also had wisdom and was as fearless as they got. At first he'd mistaken it for conceit, but he now understood that it was merely her bravery that kept her going. She cowered to no one, and he liked it. But at that particular moment, it scared the hell out of him. He knew that whatever Agamemnon demanded of her, she'd refuse. He was torn between the satisfaction and the fear he felt because of her. He wanted to go look for her, but was far too drunk and tired to stand up. Instead, he felt his heavy lids dropping over his eyes and allowed sleep to engulf him.

And for the first time in a long time, he dreamed.

He dreamed of the priestess and her large brown eyes that had the power to nail him to a wall.


	3. Chapter Three

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A/N: Once again, thanks for the wonderful replies! They keep me going. With the exception of one person (who was too chicken shit to post a signed reply), this is the best feedback I've ever received for a fic. As for that particular person, I wish you had spent more time in college learning basic grammar rather than researching the Iliad. It would have done you a world of good.

Briseis huddled in the corner, unable to fall asleep. The sky was just a few hours shy of dawn, and she knew what the dawn would bring. More bloodshed and more death. She dreaded each second that passed, even if it might bring her freedom. She'd never be free again, not from the nightmares or the memories. Memories of his bright blue eyes and the way they bore into her. She'd never been rattled by anyone the way she'd been rattled by him, and that wasn't good. He wasn't supposed to mean anything to her, wasn't supposed to arouse any feeling within her other than hate.

But he did.

He irritated her tremendously because she found it impossible to hate him. And it confused her. She didn't even dislike him. On the contrary, she now couldn't imagine living without knowing he existed in the world. She couldn't imagine her life without this war, and what it had taught her. She'd learned that even enemies could show respect and tolerate one another. She'd learned that while most men kill for greed, one killed only for glory. It didn't make him better than the rest, just different. And Zeus help her she liked different.

She'd never really been entranced by a man. They had never interested her, until now. Now, held captive in Agamemnon's quarters, she couldn't stop thinking about the man who would have died in order to protect her. He'd been surrounded by a dozen soldiers, and scores more would have been at his back had he hurt Agamemnon, and yet he'd still been ready to fight. Because Agamemnon had taken her from him, because he'd threatened to take her body and make it his own.

Briseis shuddered and clutched her legs more tightly. Agamemnon had not touched her since Achilles stormed out of the tent, and she was grateful for that. He hadn't even looked in her direction again, but had simply ordered his soldiers to release her. After Achilles left, he kept on looking in the warrior's direction for too long a while, and she then knew that what Achilles had said was right. Agamemnon's quarrel was with him, not her. And that was good because it meant she'd go unharmed as long as Achilles was alive.

The few hours before dawn passed quickly and the tent filled with sunlight. Briseis pretended to sleep as everything came to life around her. She could hear soldiers coming in and out, passing right by her, their swords clanking against their armor as they walked. She froze when she felt someone standing above her, watching her. For a moment she thought it might be Achilles, but then she remembered that the legendary warrior's last place before a battle would be looking for an enemy priestess.

A short while after the noise had erupted in Agamemnon's quarters, it subsided, and she knew that the Greeks had left for battle. She stirred in her makeshift cot, formed from two rough blankets that irritated her skin. Her eyes opened slowly and she found that she was completely alone. She sat up then and looked around. If ever there was a chance to flee, it was now. She could run out, run to Achilles' tent and wait for him to return in the evening. Although everything in her told her to go, she remained seated, unable to even blink.

If she left, Achilles would die.

Agamemnon would like nothing more, and she couldn't bear it. When she'd said that she didn't want anyone dying because of her, she'd meant that she didn't want Achilles dying because of her. In the short time that she'd known him, he'd been able to leave a mark on he soul like nobody else. His piercing blue eyes had carved out a piece of her and a part of him had moved in to fill that void. She was no longer oblivious to the emotions poets had written about for centuries. Sitting there, a captive in a ruthless king's tent, she now understood them all. The fear, the hope, the impossible, surreal feeling in the pit of her stomach. He'd done that to her in the span of just a few hours. He'd placed doubt in her mind, had made her question everything she thought she wanted and everything she lived for.

And she felt horrible.

She felt as though she was betraying everything - Apollo, her family, her countrymen, Troy, and mostly herself. She was a Trojan priestess who detested death. She'd sworn to celibacy until the day she died, and yet her body burned whenever he crossed her mind. He was a Greek warrior who only knew how to kill, who felt absolutely no remorse because of it. He was everything she wasn't, everything she thought she detested only to find out that she didn't. She couldn't, not after his eyes had burned into hers.

She didn't hate him even now, now when she knew that scores of Trojans were falling at the edge of his sword. She remembered him from the day before when he'd been ready to spill Greek blood because of her, and her breath caught in her throat. All her life she'd pitied soldiers, but she found it difficult to pity him. His presence demanded something other than pity, something entirely different than she'd ever experienced before. It was something that she couldn't quite resist, and she found that she didn't want to.

She inhaled deeply, reclining on the rough blankets and closing her eyes. She was either completely losing her mind, or had been born without one. She needed to get a grasp on her feelings and realize that they were completely ludicrous.

But when sleep finally overtook her and he appeared before her eyes, she knew that she'd never be able to.

Achilles awoke slowly, unable to let go of the dream he was having. As the rays of sunlight broke through the leather straps that hung at the entrance of his tent, they assaulted his eyes and forced his mind from the brink of unconsciousness. As his eyelids parted, her face remained fresh in his mind and his pulse quickened. He remembered most the way her eyes had widened in shock when she'd looked up to find him completely naked. He remembered the pink blush that had crept up her face, and it unnerved him. He knew that he was the first man she'd looked upon in that way, and he liked it. He liked the feeling of satisfaction of knowing that he would forever remain engraved in her memory, no matter what the future beheld for the both of them.

He was a selfish man, no question about it, and that selfishness only increased because of the connection he felt to her. He didn't necessarily like it because it made him more vulnerable, and he'd never been vulnerable in his life. But it also made him see everything in a different light, which wasn't all too bad. The connection he felt somehow intensified everything around him, making it difficult for him to breathe. Knowing her had made him realize just how human he really was and how capable he was of feeling everything he always thought he couldn't. She suddenly gave meaning to everything - to life, to death, to war, to glory, and mostly to women.

She was the first woman he didn't look upon as a sexual object. Her childish innocence prevented her personality from reeking sexuality, but it didn't mean that he didn't want her. On the contrary, he wanted her more than any other woman he'd ever been with. Her innocence only increased the growing desire he had for her. Part of the reason for this was his selfishness and the need to show her everything she was missing. But a large part of it was that he felt drawn to her, both physically and mentally. He'd never felt that way before, ever, and it excited him.

He groaned with frustration and sat up quickly. He was seriously loosing his mind. To have a virgin girl affect him the way the priestess did was unnatural, especially for a man with his standing. He stood up and dressed himself in a black toga, looking around at the mess he'd made in disgust. He must have been really crazy last night, or really drunk, or both. Broken dishes were scattered everywhere because of some Trojan priestess he'd known for less than a day and hadn't even touched.

He hesitated for a moment before bending down to clean the mess he'd made. He cleared everything rapidly and felt much better when all traces of his stupidity were erased. He then went outside to find that everyone had already left for battle. For a split second he considered seeking out the priestess, but his pride got the better of him and he started walking toward the walls of Troy.

He found the Myrmidons crowded on a hill overlooking the battle. His men were all dressed in black like him, and each one was pacing back and forth as they watched the clash play out in front of them. Menelaus had been killed, and the Greeks were marching toward the Trojan walls blindly. Achilles saw their mistake before they even made it, and it would cost them their victory. He too began to pace, irritated at how awful a general Agamemnon had proved to be. The Greek soldiers were too close to the walls, and were in the devastating range of the Trojan archers. He watched as their lines began to crumble until there was only chaos, and he couldn't look on anymore. Agamemnon's blunder had cost them a victory, and had given the Trojans the boosted morale that they needed.

In no time the scattered Greek army was fleeing back to their camp, the enemy hot on their tails. They had indeed lost the battle for the day, and the Spartans had lost their king. As the battlefield began to clear, Achilles saw scores of Greek soldiers lying dead and he began to feel restless. His fingertips began to itch for his sword, but his pride was stronger than his desire to fight. As his men looked at him gravely, he walked past them without a word and headed back to his tent. If Agamemnon wanted victory, he'd have to give up the priestess first, unharmed. He would not fight until she was back with him, and he was losing his patience.

Dusk settled quickly as he roamed the camp, looking for the girl. The remaining soldiers looked after him, some demoralized and some angry, but he didn't care. Their king was responsible for their loss, not him. Their king had decided to insult him and take away what was rightfully his. Although, he knew very clearly, she'd never be his. No matter what he did to her or didn't, he could never make her his. Her personality didn't allow it, nor did her pride, but it didn't mean that he wouldn't try. He was about to give up his search when the corner of his eye caught someone in a green dress being tossed around, and he halted.

When he heard a savage, "Give the bitch to me!" his blood boiled in his veins and he didn't waste another minute. He ran for the men who were making the commotion, prepared to kill.


	4. Chapter Four

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A/N: Again, muchos gracias for the great reviews. You guys inspire me. Picture Girl, I knew I should have let it be with that jerk, but I didn't. I'm glad you clarified the points the idiot had overlooked while "researching" this topic in "college." I'm having a fabulous time writing this fic. I just hope I can do them justice.

Briseis shuddered when she felt their large, savage hands grope every part of her body. The nightmare had begun at sunset when Agamemnon had returned to his tent, furious. He'd spotted her while he was in his rage, slapping her viciously when she was within arm's range. He'd then taken her by the hair and dragged her outside, turning her over to the mercy of his soldiers. She'd realized then that the Greeks had suffered a devastating defeat, and was both thrilled and dismayed because of it.

If the Greeks had been defeated, it probably meant that Achilles had fallen.

If Agamemnon had decided to harm her, Achilles was surely dead.

She tried to ignore the pain the soldiers were causing her as they tossed her around in their cruel game. At that moment she felt nothingness, and it frightened her. She felt completely removed from the world, or at least wished that she was. After the soldiers had their way with her, she knew they would slit her throat. Just as she was about to give up all hope on survival, a surge of bravery overtook her and she fought back, hitting one of the burly men square in the jaw. He howled like a wild animal as he staggered backward, and she felt her captor tighten his grip on her arms. She felt herself slipping from consciousness as she saw another soldier lift a burning coal toward her, and then everything happened in a flash.

Achilles surged forward, seizing the stick of scorching coal from the soldier. He pressed the hot substance against the man's neck, and Briseis heard a sickening sizzle before blackness overtook her. As Achilles attacked the man who held her, she fell to the floor soundlessly, and a moment later he lifted her into his arms. She felt almost weightless as he trudged toward his tent, but he knew that her size belied the strength she possessed within. When he saw her strike the soldier in defiance, his heart had swelled with pride and he was more sure than ever that they were more alike than they were different. She would not allow herself to be humiliated, even if she had to die protecting her pride. And that pleased him tremendously. Before he knew her he'd scoff at such an arrogant woman, but the priestess deserved anything other than that. She demanded respect, and as he placed her on the woolen mat inside his tent, he realized that he respected her immensely.

As soon as her legs hit the ground, she stirred in his arms, and slapped him away once she was fully awake. She scrambled away from him clumsily, still shaken from the rough treatment she'd been subjected to. He hesitated for a moment to observe her, and then stood up to bring the washbasin to her. He saw, with great irritation and anger, that her face had been struck several times, with blood trickling from her swelling wounds. His hands shook slightly as he lifted the wash towel to her face, but she stubbornly swatted them away. Annoyed, he reached for her face again, only to be rebuffed by her. He grunted, throwing the towel at her. She was a real piece of work. Not only had he saved her from a fate worse than death, but he'd offered to help clean her wounds, and she wasn't grateful in the least. It bothered him terribly that she still hated him, but if he was honest with himself, he couldn't find a reason for her not to.

Briseis took the towel from her lap slowly, eyeing him as he stood to his feet. She was torn between the unexpected happiness she felt when she saw that he was alive and the overwhelming anger at him for allowing her to be treated so horribly. When he'd reached for her a moment ago, both fear and excitement had sliced down her spine and she'd reacted the only way she could. When he'd reached for her the second time, she became annoyed that he hadn't gotten a clue from her first reaction. He probably was just a stupid beast who understood warfare and nothing else.

Achilles turned his back to her for a moment, then turned back to find her staring at him. He wanted to break the tension between them, and blurted out the first thing that came to his mind.

"You were brave back there when you fought off that soldier. It took a lot of courage," he said.

Briseis scoffed. "Courage? Please, a dog has that kind of courage to defend itself when it is attacked."

Achilles swallowed hard, furious that she refused to accept even a compliment from him. He watched her as she cleaned the blood from her face, her radiance beginning to break through, little by little. Her head was bent again, hiding her eyes from him, and he didn't know whether he liked or detested it. He'd never seen eyes as expressive as hers before, and he'd never really cared to look into anyone's until she came along. They did everything imaginable to him. They accused him, aroused him, infuriated him, and soothed him. There was a calm aura about her that he hadn't felt until now, an aura he was still struggling to understand. After observing her for a while, he realized that he had yet to know her name.

"When I asked you a question yesterday," he began suddenly, startling her, "you never answered me."

Briseis looked up, a shiver dancing across her spine. "And what would you like to know, oh mighty Achilles?"

Anger flashed in his eyes for a moment, but he fought to suppress it. "Your name," he said softly, surprising them both.

She looked down at the stained towel she held in her hands, then back at him. "Briseis," she answered with equal softness. "My name is Briseis."

The name filled his mind, and he bounced it off his tongue silently before testing how it sounded coming from his mouth. "Briseis," he murmured, and it exploded from his lips like a ball of passion.

She froze, startled by the way his voice quivered when he said her name. She felt her heartbeat quicken, felt a searing fire erupt in her fingertips and spread throughout her body. "Yes?" she whispered and their eyes met like magnets.

"It's a nice name."

"It's just a name," she retorted, finally willing herself to look away.

Achilles smiled, more amused than annoyed. If she hadn't learned by now, he wasn't used to giving compliments, and she was a fool for pulling each one out of him only to throw them away. He moved in front of her and sat down, aware that they were only an arms distance from each other. "When you were alone, today, what did you think about?" He asked, waiting for her to look up.

"About war," she replied, meeting his gaze with equal, more innocent intensity. "About war and how much I detest it."

He remained silent, dumbfounded as to how he should respond.

"You like it, don't you?" She continued, wiping the last traces of blood from her face. His breath became more shallow when he saw just how beautiful she was, but instead he decided to focus on her question.

"Like what?"

"War. Being a soldier. Killing men." Her voice was full of disgust and he shifted uncomfortably. She was the first woman who'd succeeded at making him uncomfortable without even trying. "Well I hate it," she said again. "I pity all you soldiers with everything inside me."

He leaned in closer, lowering his voice as he spoke. "Hundreds of men fought today to protect you. I think they deserve more than just your pity."

She parted her lips to say something, but failed to produce an argument. Achilles sat back, proud of his conquest. Battling the most challenging of warriors wasn't as satisfying as rendering her speechless. And he'd do it again and again, until she crumbled.

"You're a priestess, Briseis. You honor the gods - Apollo, Zeus, Athena. But what about Aries, the god of war?"

"All gods are to be equally respected and feared," she answered quickly, averting her gaze from his.

"So you realize that war has as equal importance in life as anything else?" He prodded, but she gave him no reply. "I'll tell you something now, something they will never teach you at your temple," he said, leaning into her again. His voice dropped by a note, sending a shiver down her back. "The gods envy us. They envy us because we are mortal, because every moment could be our last. That makes everything all the more beautiful. We will never be in this place again, we will never experience anything twice." He hesitated, enjoying the way her face reddened as he spoke. "You will never be this beautiful again. Knowing that every moment could be our last makes it so much more special, so much more intense. Our curse - our mortality - is in fact our greatest blessing."

Briseis stared at him, unable to move. He sat still for a moment before rising and walking away from her. He returned with a platter of food and placed it in front of her.

"Eat," he commanded, not knowing what else to say. A few moments with her and he was spouting poetry. If he could manage it, he'd be disgusted with himself.

"I thought you were just a dumb brute," Briseis said finally, reaching for a grape and popping it into her mouth. "I could have forgiven a dumb brute."

Achilles froze at her words, his face turning into a mask of stone. He'd make her forgive him somehow, even though he couldn't imagine how he'd actually injured her. How others felt about him had never concerned him before, but he'd also never recited sonnets until she came along. Knowing that she still hated him affected him deeply, but he'd change that if it was the last thing he did. He would not only make her forgive him, but would make her ache for him like every woman before her had. He'd conquer her, too, he promised himself as he watched her eat. He'd conquer her mind, body, and soul, or he'd die trying.


	5. Chapter Five

After Achilles had gotten up, Briseis continued to eat as she pondered over everything that was going on around her and inside of her. For the remainder of the evening he didn't say another word to her while he went in and out of the tent, until he finally retired to his bed. She tried not staring at him as he undressed himself, but found it impossible once he removed the black cloth from his upper body. In all honesty he was a beautiful man, sculpted perfectly in all the right places. She felt her girlish shyness slipping away with each passing moment, and reluctantly admitted to herself that maybe she didn't really have it in her to be a priestess after all. She realized now that she'd dived headfirst into a lifelong commitment without getting a single taste of the world around her. And now she knew the bittersweet taste, and it drew her like no other power ever had.

When she saw his fingers work at the knot at his waist, her eyes flew to his and a shock of awareness shot through her body. He wouldn't look away, didn't even react as the fabric loosened and fell to his ankles. He stood completely naked before her once again, but this time it was done purposely so he could see her reaction. The smugness in his eyes irritated her tremendously, but she was too terrified to look away, afraid what her gaze would seek out once it broke away from his. She felt the blush erupt in her chest and creep up her neck until it flooded her mind and all she could see was crimson and his searing blue eyes. He seemed to set her on fire, and the blaze swept through her, scorching every single cell she consisted of.

Achilles watched her as she watched him, satisfied with the effect he had on her. It told him that she was all woman after all, and he had to restrain himself from taking her right there and then because of it. She wasn't immovable, he knew that now, and he liked it. As she continued to stare at him, her hand frozen in midair as she clutched two grapes in it, he saw one of them burst and watched as the purple juice trickled down her arm. He moved to her slowly, a smile tugging at his lips.

"Careful," he whispered, wiping away the sticky trail of grape juice with the tip of his index finger. "You're going to stain my mat."

She looked down then, unable to bear the intensity of his eyes any longer. She muttered a low "sorry" and replaced the two grapes on the platter, loosing her appetite for food. For the first time since she'd reached womanhood, her stomach growled for something other than what could be picked from a tree or roasted over a fire. Too afraid to dwell on it or attempt to understand it, she turned to straighten out the mat she was sitting on, which was made of sheep skin. After accomplishing her task, she reclined on her side and closed her eyes, trying to shut out the turmoil inside her and the fact that he was still sitting naked beside her.

Achilles remained still for a while, tempted to brush away the hair from her face so he could look upon it again. Her chest, which was heaving a moment ago, had once again returned to its normal pace and size as she began to relax.

"You're not comfortable there," he observed, but she didn't budge. "I think you will find the bed a lot more befitting."

"And I think," she spoke up without opening her eyes, "that I would rather lay on fire than in your bed."

Furious, he reached for her, forcing her to look at him. "If I wanted, I could have you right now, priestess," he said through gritted teeth.

Her eyes flashed dangerously. "Go ahead. You will only prove what a monster I already know you are."

His grip tightened on her arm, forcing her mouth shut. They stared at one another for a long time, each matching the other's intense gaze. Their pulses quickened until they began to beat as one, thundering blood through their veins and causing their breathing to become shallow. He leaned over her, stopping short a breath away from her lips. He read the fear in her eyes, but as he lingered over her, the fear dissipated slowly as desire seeped into its place. He felt her tremble underneath him and he almost completely lost his resolve. Almost.

"I am not a monster," he whispered harshly, his eyes burning into hers.

She gasped then, shortly and soundlessly, and he lifted himself away from her. He moved around the tent, blowing out the candles until it was pitch black inside. She listened carefully as he lay in his bed, shuffling around until everything fell silent. She could hear the distant crashing of waves as they hit the sand somewhere out on the beach, waves that had brought him there, to her, so he could make her body burn.

And Zeus help her did it burn.

She lay motionless for several hours, trying to rid herself of the sensations he had created. The moonlight began to break through the leather straps at the opening of the tent, and her gaze followed it unwittingly until it landed on his body. The moonlight illuminated every muscle distinctly, torturing her once more. His face was turned to the side so that she saw only half of it. She outlined his strong jawbone with her mind, lingering on his firm lips for far too long before she finally looked away.

This wasn't how it was supposed to happen. She wasn't supposed to find him attractive. She was supposed to hate him. She had to hate him because, when he wasn't sleeping, he was out in the battlefield slaying her countrymen. Before she could process what was happening, the same instantaneous rage she'd felt at the temple filled her again, and she shot up on the mat. She now knew why she hadn't been killed back at the temple, why Apollo had allowed her to live.

Her life had been spared so she could end Achilles'.

Everything happened for a reason, and the reason why she'd survived was to kill the man who'd killed too many, not fall in love with him. She stood up soundlessly and tiptoed toward his armor. She felt around it slowly until her fingertips brushed against something sharp. His knife. She clutched it tightly and lifted it, hesitating when the moonlight reflected off it eerily.

Could she really do this?

Achilles knew that she wasn't sleeping because he wasn't either. He was still trying to banish the image of having her under him, naked, as he showed her everything she'd sworn off. He felt her stand to her feet and slowed his breathing so he could figure out what she was up to. When he hear her move across the room, he knew she'd gone to search for a weapon, and his heart sank. She still hated him. No matter how many times he made her blush and tremble, she still wanted him dead. And it devastated him, more than he was willing to admit. He felt her presence above him as she peered down reluctantly, and he almost smiled when the cool blade brushed against his skin. He waited for that inevitable moment, but it never came.

"Do it," he said, and she froze.

His voice was void of any emotion, as were his eyes when he opened them, turning his head to look at her.

"Aren't you afraid?" she asked, confused.

"Every man dies," he told her. "What does it matter whether it's today or fifty years from now?"

"If I don't kill you, many others will die," she said softly, but made no attempt to hurt him.

"Many," he replied, unable to look away from her. He waited for her to say something, or do something, but she just stared at him, dumbfounded. He lifted his hands and clutched her arms tightly.

"Do it. Kill me."

The words sent a shiver down her back. They were everything in one - a command, a plea, a dare, a warning. She couldn't move, couldn't feel or hear anything other than her thundering heartbeat. She knew that she wouldn't be able to go through with it. She knew that she wouldn't be able to kill him. As they stared at each other for what seemed like an eternity, she realized that she cared for this man deeply. She realized that after tonight, she'd never be able to wear her priestess robes again.

Without allowing her time to bolt, Achilles twisted rapidly, reversing their positions. She was now the one on her back and he was the one looming over her. She still hadn't let go of the dreaded knife, but he knew it was useless now. He'd read the emotions in her eyes, had read the desire and passion in them that made his blood boil. Her breathing was heavy, and he knew it was because of him. He noticed then that she'd exchanged the green dress she wore earlier for the white one he'd laid out for her. His hand found the hem of her dress as his heartbeat thundered in his ears. He adjusted himself above her slowly until he was cradled in between her legs.

Briseis couldn't breathe when she felt his hand on her skin. As he moved it up her leg, he left a trail of fire that spread quickly, causing her to arch her back until she was pressed flush against him. Her grip loosened on the knife, but her eyes never left his. She saw his face inch toward hers slowly, torturously, and his eyes spoke all the words he couldn't manage to say. Her mind was split into a million pieces as it tried to focus on one single sensation, one single moment that she could remember forever. His left hand on her thigh as he coaxed the thin fabric upward, his right hand under her as he held her close, his eyes that read her soul.

But her mind exploded the moment their lips met.

The first kiss was tender, soft, experimental. She almost cried at the tenderness he showed her, unable to make a connection between the man he was now and the warrior he'd always been. His lips moved over hers expertly; hers responded timidly as they tired to learn the trade.

Achilles thought he was going to burst as her inexperience teased him. The innocence in her touch stirred him immensely, and he hadn't been prepared for the feelings she awakened within him. Her lips were sweet, tender, and unskilled, but she was learning quickly. She began to kiss him back more firmly, began to bend into him more heatedly until he lost all control over himself.

His hungry tongue dived into her mouth, tasting each sweet, luscious crevice within it. He coaxed her own tongue into motion and moaned when it invaded his mouth. Somewhere in the haze of passion he heard the knife clatter onto the ground as she surrendered to him. Her arms snaked around his neck, pulling him closer as she whimpered his name. He tasted her, over and over, each new time more intoxicating than the last. He'd been with many virgin girls before, too many, but none of them had ever responded to him the way she did.

And none of them had been able to make him loose his mind the way she did.

He continued to kiss her passionately, his heart swelling each time her lips molded against his. And when he knew she was ready, he took her, tenderly, lovingly, knowing that she would be the last woman he ever touched.

Briseis gasped in that one moment, that defining moment when the thin line they'd been treading on was crossed. As he made her body his, she stumbled and fell, the knowledge of it bringing tears to her eyes. She'd never felt so utterly complete as she did at that instant when everything blended into one, when war became peace and peace became war, when night became day, and fire became water.

She continued to kiss him as the unimaginable sensations coursed through her, each time learning a new way to elicit a more provoking sound from him. She realized that she had as much power over him as he did over her, and it boosted her confidence, making their moment all the more special.

He somehow managed to completely remove the dress from her body and their skin molded into one as they continued to experience one another. Just as she'd began to master the trade of kissing, he moved his impossible lips from hers, kissing her face, her eyes, her neck, and going lower still until she could bear it no longer.

"Achilles," she moaned, tugging at his golden hair, and he halted, just for a moment.

"Let me show you," he whispered, kissing her lips again. "Let me show you, Briseis, how you deserve to be loved. Let me show you what kind of a man I am."

Her heart swelled and she closed her eyes, unable to protest. She surrendered to him again, allowing him to show her all the things he promised, and more.

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A/N: Wanted to put this at the end. I had an incredible time writing this chapter. I kept it PG13 because I'm not very good at writing love scenes, and I hope I did them a portion of the justice they deserve. Dunno how much longer this is going to be, but your reviews keep me going. I'm popping up chapters every single day! It's crazy! Thank you all very very much.


	6. Chapter Six

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A/N: Your responses are literally blowing me away. Thank you all so much for responding so well to this story. My muse and I appreciate it greatly.

P.S. Lady Scribe of Avandell: I love Mushu (sp?)!! I actually saw Mulan just a few days ago. And that's one of my fave Mushu moments. Hehe. Glad you liked the chapter.

Her head bopped up and down slowly with each breath he took. Her cheek was pressed firmly against his damp chest, right above his heart. She could still hear it thundering underneath her ear, long after he'd kissed her for a last time before retiring to his back. His powerful arm was wrapped around her waist, holding her tightly to him as they basked in the afterglow of their lovemaking, each of their thoughts brimming just at the tip of their tongues.

She wanted to tell him that he wasn't a monster.

He wanted to beg her to never regret what they'd shared, not even for a moment.

But both of them remained quiet, content in each other's warm embrace. The seconds ticked by, and when she was positive he'd fallen asleep, she spread her palm across his skin. It was still a bit surreal to her the fact that she was no longer a virgin. She could no longer be a priestess of Apollo, but she found that she didn't regret it one bit. She was a woman now, and she'd been born so that Achilles, her country's greatest threat, could show her that. She'd tasted all the pleasures right from his lips, and couldn't imagine her life without knowing them. She couldn't imagine growing old without ever knowing the impossible passion he'd aroused within her, the passion that burned right through her, setting everything she touched on fire.

She wondered then if she set him, too, on fire.

As if it had a mind of its own, her delicate hand brushed across his skin, causing his eyes to shoot open. She continued to torture him, unwittingly, sweeping her fingertips ever so lightly down his side, across his hip until his large hand clamped over hers, forcing it to stop its roaming before he exploded. She froze, both embarrassed and shocked that he was still awake.

"It's not smart to play with fire," he whispered in a husky voice, and she shivered. His thick fingers laced through hers as she tentatively lifted her head to look at him. His bright eyes startled her for a moment, causing her breath to catch in her throat.

"I'm sorry," she whispered back, not knowing what else to say, and he smiled.

"Don't be," he told her, amused. "I'm not." He looked at her for a while before lifting his head, capturing her lips with his. She responded immediately, moving her body over his more fully. As his free hand scanned her bare back, she moaned, arching into him.

"Achilles," she pleaded, and he froze.

"Say it again," he demanded.

"What?" She asked, looking at him, and his eyes filled with desire.

"My name. In that voice."

"W-why?"

"Because," he answered, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear, "I like it."

"Why?" she asked again, and his chest rumbled with laughter.

"Because," he repeated, "I can hear how much you want me."

Her eyes widened, his explanation shocking her. The same maddening blush spread across her cheeks again, and his eyes darkened.

"Don't be embarrassed," he told her when she looked away. "There is nothing wrong with what you're feeling."

Briseis became irritated, partly because he was right and partly because he was telling her how she should feel. The moment between them dissipated, at least for her, and she untangled herself from him. "You have no idea what I'm feeling," she muttered as she moved away from him, turning to her side.

Achilles lay still for a moment, trying to process what the hell just happened. First she was touching him, ready to give herself to him again, and then she pulled away like nothing had ever happened between them. He'd never been on the receiving side of such a brush-off, and it stung quite painfully. But his reason overrode his hurt pride and he remembered that he'd been her first, ever, an enemy soldier who held her captive. She wasn't like other women, he knew, because he'd taken plenty of captive women in previous wars. She remained tall, unbendable, even after she'd surrendered her body to him.

But, had she really been the one who'd surrendered, or had it been him?

The sudden thought gnawed at him, and he turned his head to look at her illuminated back. What if he was really her captive, in some weird, twisted way, unable to break free of the hold she had over him? Ever since the first moment he'd looked into her eyes he'd been nothing short of drawn, maybe even bewitched by her. He never would have waited so long for any other woman, but he'd waited for her until he was absolutely sure that she was ready and that she wouldn't regret a single moment between them. So in a way he had really surrendered to her, he'd surrendered his will and his pride, and for the first time in his life he wasn't infuriated by the fact.

He liked it.

It made him more human, more mortal, more real. And if he wanted anything in his life it was to be real. She'd given that to him, had made everything between them real, had made everything in his life real, and he found that he was eternally indebted to her for it. He turned to his side, snaking closer to her until their bodies were almost glued together. He leaned his head over hers and it fit in the cavity of her shoulder perfectly.

"Tell me, then," he finally said, "tell me how you feel."

Briseis closed her eyes, his scent enveloping her senses once again, making it impossible for her to think. How did she feel? She had no clue, and how could she? Everything had suddenly become a blur: her destiny, his intentions, her dedications, his motivations, her loyalties, his reasons. The war didn't even exist anymore, not when he was this close to her, not when she'd made love to the man who'd probably help burn Troy to the ground. She wanted to feel guilty, she needed to feel guilty, but she couldn't.

Not after the way he looked at her and the way he touched her.

But then there was a part of her that fretted over the way he felt about her. She tried to banish the thoughts, but in the end she painstakingly pondered on the possibility that she was just another body to him, another conquest he could stack high on his wall of pride. And that hurt the most, the very prospect that she'd allowed such a man to cause her to break a promise she'd made to the gods and take away any chance she had to redeem herself before them.

But then his voice trembled and her reason faltered, and everything became a blur again.

"Briseis," he whispered harshly, this time wrapping his arm around her waist. "Tell me."

She turned her head until their eyes met, and his gut clenched when he saw the tears brimming in hers. Regret. Regret, regret, regret. It echoed hollow in his head, shooting pain throughout his body. He couldn't stand looking into her eyes any longer because it hurt him, worse than any sword ever could. And the hurt didn't come from his pride, but his heart, making the pain all too real and searing.

"What am I to you?" she whispered finally, searching his eyes.

And then he understood. His mind reeled at her question, his heart picked up its pace, and his body relaxed.

"You, Briseis," he answered, emphasizing every single syllable, "are the only woman who has made me second-guess myself."

He heard her swallow and waited patiently for a response. Her lips parted as if to say something, but she hesitated, looking away from him. When the silence stretched between them, he became impatient.

"Say something," he insisted, and their eyes met again.

"Are you lying?" She asked, her voice unsure.

"I don't lie."

His voice was firm, his words final, and she believed him.

"Then what I feel is important to you?"

"Yes," he replied, pulling her closer. "It is very important to me."

"Why?" They both asked in unison, and he laughed. He reached over with his free hand and placed it over her cheek. She leaned into his touch without even thinking about it and closed her eyes.

"Because," he whispered for the third time that evening, "you're irresistible."

A ghost of a smile spread across her lips. "I'm just a priestess," she murmured.

"Not anymore," Achilles sighed, closing the space between them as he moved his head to kiss her. After he drank in as much of her as he could bear, he pulled away. "Tell me. Do you regret it?"

Briseis considered his question, unsure of how to answer it. "I...don't," she said finally, and felt him tremble. "How could I? You showed me a world that I've never known before, a world I didn't think I wanted to know before you came along. You made me a woman," she whispered, running her hand along his arm.

"You were already a woman, long before I came along Briseis. You were a strong, unbendable woman. You still are," he told her. "You were just...untouched. And, for a long time, untouchable."

She read the smile in his eyes and it warmed her heart. "And I thought you were just a savage soldier."

His face darkened. "I believe that the term you used was monster."

"I was scared," she explained, but he shook his head.

"No you weren't. You're fearless."

"I was angry, then," she told him. "I was very, very angry."

"Are you still angry?"

She averted her eyes from his. "No."

"What are you?" He pressed.

"I'm just...content."

Achilles inhaled deeply. "So am I," he said. "You gave me something I've never experienced before."

"You expect me to believe that?" She teased, half serious.

"You made it real," he said fiercely. "I've never had that with a woman."

"So what happens now?" She asked, his words melting her.

"What do you want to happen?" His eyes burned into hers as he searched for an answer within her brown orbs.

She blushed, looking away from him. "I don't know," she murmured. She waited for a response from him, but received none. He closed his eyes and placed a kiss on her cheek.

"Now we sleep," he whispered into her hair, drawing a cover over their bodies. Her breathing eventually evened out as consciousness seeped out of her, but his eyes remained open. He had no idea what the morning would bring, or how he'd feel once the sun lit everything brightly, but right now he was terrified.

Right now something inside his head told him that he finally understood that one pesky little word.

Love.

He understood love.

And it made him want to crawl into a dark corner and hide.


	7. Chapter Seven

****

A/N: Sorry for the delay!

He woke up a few hours after dawn but he refused to get up. The moment was too delicious, too encompassing that he'd feel treacherous if he broke it. She was laying next to him, naked, one arm sprawled lazily across his chest. Her leg, likewise, was entangled over his, slowly driving him to the brink of insanity. He dared not move for fear that he'd rouse her, and she'd shift and break the haze that enveloped them. His breaths were long and deep as he tried to memorize her smell. He'd never been with a woman who smelled so completely pure, and at the same time intoxicatingly alluring. She wasn't even aware of the power she held in the palm of her hand, and how could she be? She'd sworn off men when she decided to become a priestess.

But she was a priestess no more.

She was just Briseis, _his_ Briseis, and yet she wasn't. No matter what he did he could never make her his. The fact infuriated him as much as it pleased him. He twisted his neck so he could peer down at her face, but her mass of brown hair was in his way. Without thinking, he moved his hand to brush it away, and when his fingertips came in contact with her cheek, she stirred. Immediately realizing his mistake, he cursed silently, his body tensing when she shifted away from him.

Since he couldn't get back into the luscious position they'd been in, with her pressed flush against him, he found no need to remain in bed. He slipped from underneath the thin sheet and proceeded to dress himself. When he'd washed his face and put on a blue outfit, he moved to sit across from where she slept and reached for the platter she'd abandoned the previous evening. He ripped a few succulent grapes from the bunch, popping each one into his mouth as he observed her.

If it was possible, she was even more beautiful now. She was no longer a girl, and that somehow added to her captivating aura. She seemed tiny, almost invisible underneath the dark sheet that just barely covered her. But he knew that her appearance highly belied the power her delicate limbs beheld. She'd proven that just a few hours back when she'd almost made him combust into a ball of fire without even trying. She was the most unpredictable, infuriating, proud woman he had ever known, and he knew plenty. Only he'd never cared to really know any of them.

But with Briseis, it was completely different.

He wanted to know what she was thinking, what she was feeling, and it unnerved him. He'd needed to hear that she didn't regret what had happened between them. Before, none of that had mattered. Before, all he wanted and needed was the physical aspect of the relationship. There was no emotional attachment.

Before.

But not anymore.

As he continued to ponder over the situation, a head poked through the leather straps. It was Eudorus.

"My lord," the faithful soldier began loudly, glancing over to the bed when Achilles pressed a finger to his lips. When he saw the priestess laying there, obviously naked beneath the sheet, he hesitated.

"What is it, Eudorus?" Achilles asked in a hushed voice.

The other man cleared his throat and looked at his leader again. When he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper. "King Odysseus wishes to speak with you."

Achilles nodded and Eudorus disappeared back outside. He looked long and hard at a sleeping Briseis, knowing just what his friend would ask of him. He'd say that Agamemnon no longer kept the priestess captive, and so he should fight with the Greeks again. He no longer had a reason to stay behind while the Greek army suffered humiliating defeat on the beaches of Troy.

Only now he did.

Somewhere between the first time he'd seen her and the first time he'd made love to her, she'd become a reason to turn back on everything he had ever wanted. Everything he thought he wanted. He remembered his mother, the only woman who had mattered to him until now. He remembered her and her words before he'd left for Troy. Before he'd left to find immortality. And, all of a sudden, he understood the beauty that was in the one thing he'd never cared for.

Family.

He understood the beauty of family. He understood the beauty of waking up next to the same woman day after day and having her soothe all the emotions he was too obstinate to show. Before he'd met Briseis, he wouldn't have given family a second thought. What his mother had told him while her elegant hands searched for seashells that were around his neck now began to resound in his head, slowly cracking the impossible wall every warrior had to put around his heart.

__

You could stay here and find a good woman to marry. You will have many children who will love you and carry your name with pride, and their children after them. But your name will eventually die out and you will be forgotten.

His eyes began to burn slightly and he blinked away the sensation.

__

If you go to Troy, glory will be yours. But I shall never see you again for your glory walks hand in hand with your doom.

He could still have his glory. He was still in Troy. The war was still being waged. When he walked out to meet Odysseus, he could agree to what his friend was sure to ask him. Without hesitation. But, he wasn't sure anymore. He wasn't sure if he wanted glory, if he wanted the immense thrill of hearing his name roared by scores of fearless Greeks, or if he wanted his name moaned, night after night, from the depths of Briseis' throat as he made love to her. As he made their children who would have their mother's milky brown eyes and their father's powerful hands.

He just wasn't sure anymore.

He finally stood up, his mind clouded with his conflicting thoughts and desires. He left the tent quietly, looking over his shoulder for a last time as he pushed away the leather flaps. The sunlight spilled over her face and his breath hitched in his throat, and he knew.

He found Odysseus sitting a few feet away from his lodging, and the older man greeted him with a smile.

"Achilles, my friend. Come and join me." He motioned to an empty seat next to him, and Achilles sat down wordlessly.

"Are you ready to join us again?" Odysseus pressed, not wasting any time.

"We came to Troy for Helen," Achilles said, looking straight ahead. "Now that Menelaus is dead, there is no need to fight anymore."

"We cannot leave now, you know that. We must fight, or we loose all credibility before the world."

"If Agamemnon wants to sacrifice his soldiers for greed, I cannot stop him."

Odysseus nodded. "And what about glory?"

Achilles turned his head then, and when his friend saw that the clear, unreadable blue was now storming with emotions, he understood.

"Everything was so much simpler before morning," he replied.

"Women have a way of complicating things," Odysseus agreed. "I hope she is worth it."

"Why are _you_ staying here?" Achilles wondered aloud. "Aren't you sick of being a servant to Agamemnon's greed?"

"Sometimes you have to serve in order to lead," Odysseus replied, knowing that his implorations would go unheeded. He didn't blame his friend, only wished that he'd chosen to fall for a woman after they won the war. But now it was too late.

Achilles stood up and placed a firm hand on his shoulder. "Of all the kings of Greece, I respect you the most," he said decisively before walking away. He walked back to the tent slowly, confused by what had just happened. He had just turned his back on everything that was supposed to matter the most in his life. He had just given up glory for a woman. A woman he wasn't even convinced he wouldn't tire of. Sure her defiance intrigued him now, but what about a week later, or a month? Would she still intrigue him as much? He hesitated in mid-stride, contemplating the warring thoughts in his head.

__

Was she really worth it?

Did she even _want_ to be worth it?

Sure, she'd surrendered her body to him, but what woman wouldn't have? No matter how chaste Briseis had been, he'd had no doubt that eventually he would be able to unearth the desires that lay untouched beneath the surface of her calm, proud exterior. Last night, after he made love to her, she told him that she was content, but how much truth was actually in her confession? Perhaps she'd been blinded by the aftermath of what she'd experienced and hadn't known what she was saying. Perhaps all he'd aroused was that primal desire, the one he was so accustomed to, the desire he'd thought was more than enough.

His chest expanded as he found it harder and harder to breathe. When had emotional involvement become a part of the equation between a man and a woman? When had he decided that immortality was no longer as important as the satisfaction, the _emotional_ satisfaction, of a woman?

When had _he_ become a woman?

He clenched his fists furiously and turned around, resolved to take back what he'd told Odysseus. He _would_ fight in the war. He would get what he came for - his glory. But, as his eyes landed on the spot where his friend should have been sitting, he found it empty. A wave of emotions passed through him, and he couldn't decipher whether it was relief or disappointment, or both.

It didn't matter much anyway, he decided. He'd join the army when they went for war that day. In fact, he'd go into his tent and put on his armor right away. The Greek soldiers would rally behind him, as always, and he'd hear their deafening roar as they chanted, "Achilles."

He pushed back the flaps of his tent and stepped inside, his resolution dissipating into thin air the moment he saw her. Her back was turned to him as she bent over slightly at the far side of the bed. The dark sheet was wrapped around her shoulders, but he now knew their exact texture and sweetness. She'd painted herself in his mind, and it was a picture he'd carry with him always.

He let the straps fall back as he stood still, waiting for her to turn around, but she was completely oblivious to his presence. She was too immersed in whatever she was doing, and he became increasingly curious as to what that was. He moved quietly toward her, smiling when he saw that she was looking at her reflection in a silver platter. Her eyebrows were creased in confusion as she tried to find a part of herself that he knew she thought she'd lost when he'd taken her virginity.

"What are you looking for?" He asked softly, startling her nonetheless.

Her head shot up and she peered at him with wide eyes. He looked breathtakingly handsome in his blue attire, and she found herself at a loss of words for a long moment.

Achilles arched his eyebrows, amused. "Well?"

"I - I'm trying to discern what's different about me," she replied quietly, half expecting him to laugh mockingly at her. Instead, he crouched before her, and she held her breath for what seemed like an eternity.

"What do you want to be different about you?" He inquired, his eyes trailing over her face and landing on her lips.

"I'm not sure," she confessed, looking back down at her reflection. "I should be different somehow, I know that much."

"If you mean physically," Achilles offered carefully, "you are. You're no longer a virgin."

Briseis shook her head, afraid of the storm that was brewing within her. Pleasure, satisfaction, guilt, fear, confusion - they all bore down on her, and her face etched into a deeper frown. "That would be stating the obvious," she said finally, mostly to herself. "It's something _else_, something I can't understand." She looked at him then, her brown eyes stormy and dark. "You must think me a fool, to be so preoccupied with something that's so natural to you."

He shook his head at the accusation, slightly offended. "Not at all," he told her firmly.

"I probably am a fool. First thinking that I could kill you, then allowing myself to fall into you."

"You never believed that you could kill me," he disagreed. "We both know that."

"But I am a fool. I am a Trojan. You are a Greek. We are on opposite sides," she whispered, tears welling in her eyes. "You came to destroy my country. Yet I cannot hate you."

Achilles swallowed away the lump that had formed in his throat. "I'm glad to hear that," he said just as quietly, tenderly lifting a hand to her cheek. She closed her eyes and unwittingly leaned into his touch.

"You will destroy it, won't you?" She continued, a single tear escaping from her closed lids. "You will destroy my country, and so you will destroy me. And still I cannot pull away from you."

"I won't," he chocked out, surprising them both. "I won't destroy your country. I _cannot_ destroy you."

Briseis opened her eyes and looked at him skeptically. "You're lying," she observed, causing the edge of his lips to curl up.

"I don't lie, Briseis," he said, leaning toward her to smell her hair. "I don't lie."


	8. Chapter Eight

Briseis shut her eyes as he leaned into her. Her stomach fluttered when his cheek brushed hers as he buried his face into her hair. She didn't know why, but he had some uncommon fascination with her hair, and the thought made her smile. It was as if he couldn't get enough of her, and it gave her an odd sense of power. His hand slowly trailed down the length of her slender neck, pushing away the sheet that covered her shoulder. She shivered at the sensation, the undeniable burning erupting in her head and settling between her thighs. She'd become almost accustomed to the feelings he aroused within her, but each time he touched her he sparked something new, something she ached to hold on to and explore.

Achilles trembled as her scent filled his nostrils, slowly seeping into his bloodstream and becoming a part of him. In that moment when he held her nothing else mattered, not war or glory or immortality. Just Briseis and how much his body ached for her. He didn't think that it was possible, that he could actually want her more in the morning than he's wanted her last night. He remembered that split second before he'd returned to his tent, the second in which the firebrand warrior had returned to his senses and realized what he was doing was completely ludicrous. But now, now when he felt her stir tentatively against him, her scathing fingertips exploring his chest again, that warrior was once again subdued and repressed and the man in him stepped forward, taking charge of the situation.

He pulled away slightly and peered into her eyes, and saw that they were clouded with the same passion that was burning in his. He watched breathlessly as she raised both her hands to his face, her eyes trained on anything but his own. Her hands slid upward ever so slowly, causing a low growl to escape his throat when her thumbs feathered across his lips. She outlined his angular jaw line with the tips of her fingers and continued to explore his features further, skimming across his high cheekbones with great care. He shut his eyes when her hands delved into his golden hair, unable to observe the sheer curiosity that burned in her face as she tortured him.

She smiled unwittingly when he sucked in a sharp breath. She was half-exercising her power and half-exploring him, trying to find a single fault in his seemingly flawless features. When he shut his eyes, she knew that she'd come up empty-handed. He was perfect. The realization struck her as odd, and she tilted her head, scrutinizing him more carefully. He couldn't be perfect. He was a warrior. He'd been designed to kill. But his hands - _oh God his hands_ - they held her shoulders tightly, forcing her still as her heart thundered in her chest. His hands, the palms that had touched every part of her body the previous night, had spilled blood for so many years. And they would once again, she was vaguely positive of it.

And yet he was _still_ perfect.

A demi-god, as she'd come to know.

__

"I've seen Olympus."

She shivered, and as she tried to pull away she only managed to pull him closer. Her hands were entangled in his hair, clutching the perfect locks tightly, and she held her breath until their lips met.

And while it was wrong, so wrong, her insides exploded.

If it was possible, he was even more demanding this time, and she was even hungrier, and they fit perfectly. He slanted his mouth over hers, without hesitation this time, and invaded its crevices with his tongue. His hands began to roam, everywhere, and the thin sheet lost itself from her body as his own took its place. His skin molded into hers, bare chest against bare chest, and he crushed her against the mat mindlessly until she gasped.

"W-wait," she stammered weakly as he pinned her down. She pushed his head away from hers, tears pooling in her eyes. When he froze above her she relaxed, feeling a little less like a whore and a little more like Briseis.

His eyebrows furrowed in apprehension. "Did I hurt you?" He waited for a response, almost afraid to hear what she had to say.

Briseis shook her head. She closed her eyes, but the tears spilled over her cheeks anyway. "No. I - I just..." She trailed off, unsure of how to explain to him that he'd been too rough and that she'd felt a little too much like a standard whore.

Achilles let out a heavy sigh and rolled off of her. His hands were shaking when he looked down at them. He didn't dare look into her eyes again. He couldn't bear to see the fear and the disgust. At him. At _herself._ He'd put that there, and he didn't know how to take it away.

Maybe he was just a dumb brute after all.

She reached for the sheet and wrapped it tightly around herself. She sat up slowly, turning her head to look at him. His face was turned away from her, his shoulders trembling slightly. "I suppose this is stupid," she began, her voice unsteady. "I am your captive after all. You can do with me as you please."

His head jerked around then. "I'm a warrior, maybe even a killer." He took her chin firmly, forcing her eyes to meet his. "But I am _not_ a rapist," he ground out.

Her gaze faltered. "I never said that," she whispered.

"I saw it in your eyes. And I'm sorry," he said sincerely. When she didn't say anything, he released her chin and sighed. He stood up and readjusted his blue robe, trying to forget her delicate hands on him, tugging the cloth from his body. He looked down at her. Her head was bent, her shoulders slumped, and he felt like the biggest animal on earth. "You don't have to be afraid of me," he managed out finally, and she looked up at him.

"I'm not afraid of you," she confessed. "I'm just..." She hesitated, unable to find the right words.

Achilles crouched down again. "You're what?"

"I don't know. Inexperienced. Unaware."

He nodded with understanding. "A little overwhelmed."

"Yeah."

"I won't push you, Briseis," he said. "I'm not an animal."

"But you're Achilles. You always get what you want."

He smiled crookedly, causing a shiver to dance across her spine. "With you, somehow that's not an option."

She blushed and looked away. "That's not entirely true," she told him in a small voice.

"You're right," he agreed. "But for the most part...you're impossible."

"A few days ago I was just a priestess in Apollo's temple. Today I'm the lover of Greece's fiercest warrior." She shrugged, looking at him. "This whole situation is impossible."

He stood silent for a long moment until he finally asked, "Do you...can you ever see me as a man? Not a warrior?"

"When you hold me, you are a man," she confessed in a whisper.

Satisfied with her answer, Achilles sat down across from her and took the platter of food, setting it between them. They ate in silence while he looked at her and she looked down at her lap. The cuts on her lip and eyebrow had almost disappeared and her face was flushed, causing her to look more like a girl than ever before. She kept one hand fisted tightly below her collarbone as she held the sheet secure around her body. The other free hand reached over every once in a while, ripping grapes here and there, until they finally grasped at the same spot and their hands clashed.

She pulled away first, startled.

He smiled, leaning back his head to look at her more fully. "You can take the remaining grapes," he said, amused. He'd have to teach her not to be so damn shy around him because it drove him crazy.

Briseis shook her head, still refusing to look at him. "No, it's quite alright. I'm not hungry anymore."

"Briseis," he said, and her eyes locked with his. "Take the grapes."

Her eyebrows arched upward. "If I don't, shall you force me?"

It was a challenge.

He never backed away from challenges.

Smiling, he took the succulent fruit into his hand and moved to sit next to her. The moment she shrank from him he wrapped a strong arm around her, pulling her flush against his side.

"Here," he murmured, pressing a grape against her mouth.

She parted her lips and sucked in the grape, her tongue briefly sweeping the tip of his finger. She watched as his eyes darkened and that same strange, fiery feeling filled her again. His head inched closer to hers and she was vaguely aware that he was supposed to be feeding her grapes.

Achilles took a sharp breath, forgetting the fruit he held in his hand. When their lips were a breath away, she spoke.

"What about my food?"

He laughed. "I told you," he said, shaking his head. "Impossible."

Briseis smiled with victory. "My grapes, please," she said, extending her hand.

"Okay, priestess," he murmured, placing the fruit onto her palm. "But you won't be able to keep up this charade forever."

She shrugged, popping a couple of grapes into her mouth. "What charade?" She mumbled, although she'd been taught since her early years to never speak with her mouth full. But she'd also been taught that as a priestess she was to remain a virgin until she died, and that had been thrown into the mud the night before.

When she finished eating, she tossed the grapevine onto the platter and looked at him. "Where did you go this morning?" She asked curiously.

"My friend wished to speak to me," he replied.

"What about?"

"Joining the battle again," he said, watching her reaction.

Her gaze faltered for a moment, but she regained her composure. "And you told him no."

He nodded. "That's right."

"How come?" She asked, tilting her head.

He blew out a heavy breath. "I'm still trying to figure that one out."

She fidgeted with the sheet that was around her, shielding her body from his gaze. "Will you...will you ever join the army against Troy again?" She inquired softly, unable to look at him.

"You know," he sighed, "I really don't know." He smiled at her. "You really complicate things."

"How so?"

"Before, I'd never stay behind. I'd be the first to lift my sword."

"And now?" She asked, her face open and accepting.

"Now my sword is cold."

She nodded. "So what do warriors do when they're not out in the battlefield?"

His smile spread. "We play." He reached for her hair, taking a long lock into his hand. "Who used to bathe you when you were behind palace walls?" He asked, his eyes darkening when she blushed. She remained silent as she bent her head, shielding her face from his piercing gaze. "Briseis, I've made love to you. There is nothing to be shy about anymore."

"Before you, no man touched me. With all due respect, Achilles," she almost snapped at him, "I am entitled to be a little reserved about something so private."

"I asked you a simple thing," he told her, sliding his hand into her hair. "I didn't say I wanted to bathe you myself."

"I did," she said firmly, looking at him. "I bathed myself. Before you, _nobody_ touched me." Despite her frustration, she couldn't help the pride that filled her when she read the satisfaction in his eyes.

"If you wanted to get me off your back," he said in a husky voice, "that was the wrong thing to say."

"I was just answering your question," she countered, her heart skipping a beat as he nudged her head toward his.

"What would you say, Briseis," he whispered, "if I was to say I wanted to give you a bath?"

"I'd say you were pushing your luck."

"And if I said you had no choice?"

"I'd say we were back at square one," she told him without hesitation, and he smiled, drawing away from her.

"I never did like square one," he confessed to her. "You were too stiff."

"And now?" She pressed, arching her eyebrows. Despite herself, she missed having him so close to her so that she could feel his hot breath on her skin.

"Now," he murmured, moving into her again. "Now I can do this." He placed a kiss on her lips, satisfied when she tilted her head to deepen it. "And this," he continued raggedly, slipping a hand underneath the sheet.

She arched into him when his hand brushed across her bare breast. The guilt shook her for a fleeting second, but then she melted into him, forgetting that she was a Trojan and he a Greek, forgetting that there was a war being waged somewhere not too far from them, a war that would either devastate her country or his. But none of that existed then, nothing but him and her, and for that moment it was enough. For that moment all that mattered were his tender hands and his scathing lips, and her open welcome to whatever he wished to do with her.


	9. Chapter Nine

****

A/N: Again, so sorry for the delay!

When he held her this close to him, everything else disappeared. The world didn't exist, nor did the war, or even his glory. It was all an illusion and the woman he held in his arms was the only reality. Her satin skin that had the slightest scent of rose oil and her large brown eyes were all that encompassed him. The delicate hands that played across his shoulder were an undeniable reminder that she was completely his and only his. And, for the first time ever, he too was completely hers. If she didn't know it before, she'd soon find out because the longer he held her, the more his lips ached to ask her to come away with him. He'd leave the one thing that mattered most to him, his glory, and she'd leave her homeland. The rest was up to fate. He didn't make any grand plans, didn't have any great expectations. He wasn't a romantic man, he was merely a man who couldn't let go of a certain woman just yet. Perhaps sometime in the near or far future he'd tire of her, but not now.

And now was all that mattered.

He opened his eyes and peered down at her. Their gazes locked and his chest expanded at the hazy, and yet still innocent expression on her face. It was impossible that she should look so entirely pure, especially after what her body had done to him and the sounds he'd elicited from the depths of her soul just a while back. And yet she did, she looked pure as ever, and he recoiled slightly, afraid of what her answer may be. Afraid of what his reaction to her answer would be.

Instead of speaking, he lifted a tender hand to her neck and drew and invisible line with his index finger down its length. Her skin was glistening from the heat of the moment they'd shared, causing her to look almost ethereal, and he had to make sure that she was still there. She closed her eyes and sighed, causing him to smile. His fingers played with the locks at the nape of her neck, trailing over ever so often to outline the soft column of her jaw. She opened her eyes slowly and looked at him.

"Am I still your captive?" She asked in a whisper.

"You are my guest," he replied, his voice thick with emotion.

Her gaze faltered for a moment as she contemplated on the meaning of his words. "In Troy," she finally murmured without lifting her head, "guests can leave whenever they wish."

He looked at the top of her head, unable to find the words to counter what she said. Whatever she was implying, he didn't like it. He wanted to believe that she was in too deep to ever want to untangle herself from him. But her soft declaration suggested something entirely else. His hand gripped her shoulder as he prepared himself to ask the question that he had to ask. He needed to know just what it was that she felt about the entire situation. Her fingers were still toying with his shoulder, and he'd learned that it was something she did when she was anxious.

"Would you leave now?" He asked, holding his breath until she gave him an answer.

Her head tilted ever so slowly and when their eyes met, he knew her reply. "No," she said firmly, decisively. She could not leave now, not when he'd become something so much more than just an enemy in her heart. He'd delved into her soul with his eyes, had carved out a piece of her and left an aching void that only his presence could fill. She'd heard the apprehension in his voice when he asked her, and it had served to strengthen her resolve. She wouldn't leave him, not now, and perhaps not ever because, when he touched her like that, he was the only thing that mattered.

Achilles considered his chances before going for the kill. She wouldn't leave him, she said so, and he was positive of it. The firmness in her answer did something to him, made him feel like he held the entire world in the palm of his hand. And in that moment, he did. His hand slid over her shoulder and she trembled under his touch.

"Would you leave Troy with me?" He asked at last, looking at her intensely. Her eyes widened, filled with slight shock, then skepticism.

"And you would leave all of this behind?" She asked wondrously. It was impossible that he should abandon everything he'd come for, and instead of his glory return only with her. She dared not admit how the very thought of it made her feel, but she entertained it anyway. "You would desert the war and leave Troy?" She continued doubtfully, and he smiled.

"Yes," he told her, spreading his palm across her back and pulling her to him. "Yes, I would leave Troy, and the war, and my glory behind."

"And you would exchange all this for..."

"For _you_," he confirmed, finishing off her thought.

"And if I was to say no?" She whispered.

He drew his head to hers, tracing the tip of his index finger down her spine. "Would you say no?" He pressed, already knowing her answer.

Briseis closed her eyes, unable to bear the intensity of his stare any longer. She shook her head softly and answered, "no."

"Then we sail in the morning," Achilles told her, and she opened her eyes.

"You were so sure of my reply," she began, one eyebrow arched suspiciously. "How come?"

"You are not difficult to read, Briseis," he answered. "You display all your emotions in your eyes. And you have experienced too much with me to turn away now."

"That's true," she agreed, forcing her hand still on his shoulder. "But what about you? I am not the first woman to warm your bed. Why-"

"You don't merely warm my bed," he cut in darkly. "You are unlike any woman I have ever met."

"I find that fairly impossible," she countered. "There are many more like me in the world. Insignificant. Weak. Treacherous."

"You feel treacherous because you made love to me," he said matter-of-factly. "Don't. You didn't betray your country by falling into my arms. I should think that you saved it."

She couldn't help but smile. "You must be the most arrogant man to have ever crossed this earth," she told him, her eyes glowing with amusement. "I find it difficult to believe that you should still be infatuated with me."

"I never said infatuated, priestess," he corrected. "The word never slipped between my lips. Not once." He smirked. "If it's allowed, I should actually think that it is you who is the arrogant one."

Her eyebrows furrowed slightly, but her expression was still light and open. "Then why did you ask me to leave Troy with you?"

"It's simple," he said, placing a slow kiss on her lips. "I want you by my side."

She took a moment to recover from his actions before speaking. "And how long should I be honored to grace your side, oh mighty Achilles?"

"As long as you wish."

"Not as long as _you_ wish?" She inquired doubtfully.

"When I hold you like this, priestess," he managed out huskily, molding his body to hers, "it seems that I want you forever by my side."

Her breath caught in her throat as her heart began to thunder in her chest again. She'd been sure that she should be satisfied by now, that her hunger for his touch should subside, but it only burned brighter and stronger whenever he touched her. She became painfully aware of the aching between her legs, and the void inside her grew wider, screaming for him to fill it. She showed none of it from the outside, but he read the desire clearly in her eyes and a rakish grin spread across his face. She couldn't, for the life of her, resist him. And that made his need for her all the more justifiable.

"Wh-when you speak like that," she stammered, "I cannot help but think that you are-"

"Infatuated by you?" He cut in, the hand that rested on the small of her back dipping dangerously over the curve of her hip. "Neither can I," he admitted, his voice heavy and hoarse. "But you must understand something, Briseis," he continued as her eyes fluttered shut. "I will never admit it."

"Then I am just your bed-warmer," she goaded as his lips descended to her neck, smiling wickedly when he froze above her. His large, powerful hands gripped her shoulders tightly as he forced her on her back. His eyes were furious when he lifted his head, his jaw line set and tense.

"You, woman, are impossible," he hissed, his irritation growing when he read the victory in her eyes. "You know what you are, and yet you proceed to beat it out of me."

"Then tell me," she implored. "Why should I leave Troy with you?"

"Because you cannot resist me," he replied. "Because you will spend every day of your life wishing you had put your pride aside for one damn moment and admitted how you really feel."

When his eyes tore away from hers, something shifted within her and she softened. There was only so far that a man could be pushed. What he was saying to her - it wasn't about her, it was about himself. And it was enough. Her delicate hands found his face and lowered his lips to hers. The moment they met his stirred into motion, and he positioned himself more fully above her. Her impossible hands trailed over his shoulders and she locked her arms behind his neck, holding onto him for dear life.

"You're right, you're right," she whimpered when he broke away. "I cannot resist you." When his hands masterfully outlined her breasts, she cried out and arched into him. "I cannot stop wanting this," she continued breathlessly. "I cannot stop wanting you, next to me, above me, inside me," she continued almost inaudibly.

He closed his eyes as her words bombarded him, setting his body on fire. Her eyes were shut tightly as her breathing came out heavy and labored. Her body was already sweating again, despite the fact that he'd began his torture just a minute ago. She responded to him immediately, almost impeccably, and it only intensified his need to make love to her again. His lips descended to hers and he invaded her mouth with his tongue as the passion consumed him. As he trailed his lips over her jaw line, she panted into his ear, and he almost lost control. But before he took her he made sure that she was ready, that it was what she wanted, and they trembled in each other's arms as the waves of pleasure rattled through them.

When she lay her head on his damp chest some while afterwards, everything seemed to fit into place. His apparent crudeness, her seeming innocence, the horror of the war, his arms tightly wound about her - it all just fit. Perfectly. She should have been ashamed for allowing such a thought to cross her mind, but she couldn't be. Not when his finger traced lazy circles on her shoulders or when he tenderly kissed her forehead before closing his eyes. His power and his glory were all minimized to this one moment, and it all fit perfectly. Her eyes remained open as she pondered over the situation, as she reflected on the day that had been almost flawless had it not occurred due to the sole fact that a war was raging on.

After their banter in the morning, and their lovemaking, he'd allowed her a chance to shower before sitting down with her and, ironically enough, talking about their two families. She'd learned, with more than a little amazement, that his mother was the wise goddess Thetis, and that he was almost unbreakable, except for his right ankle. His ankle was his weakness, but he reveled in the fact for it meant that he was completely mortal. She'd looked upon him in sheer wonder, unable to understand why anyone would take mortality over immortality.

But when he touched her, she knew.

He was just a man, and was able to enjoy all the pleasures presented to him with an astonishingly higher intensity than someone from Olympus. He was able to revel in every single moment because, as he'd pointed out before, it could be his last. And sweet heavens did he make every single moment count. If tonight was the last evening she'd see, she knew she would die happy without laying her eyes on Paris or Hector or Troy ever again.

She realized that she'd become a priestess because she was searching for a place to belong. She never could have imagined that she'd find that place in the security of Achilles' arms.

And yet, she concluded with a tinge of terror, she had.


	10. Chapter Ten

**A/N: I know it's been forever, but here's another chapter. Aint that great but it's all I could do for now since I'm a bit rusty (it's been over a year since I saw Troy!). This is because some recent reviews have encouraged me to write again, and I must admit I missed it. Thanks guys!**

Patroclus awoke to the sound of yelling soldiers. His eyes quickly adjusted to the pitch black, but he was disturbed by the commotion. He got up quickly and headed outside. The scene that awaited him caused the blood to boil in his veins. The Trojans had treacherously sacked their encampment with fireballs, and the devastation was to be seen everywhere. Burning tents, scores of injured Greek soldiers, broken ranks – and the fury within him kept on building. He could not understand how, or why, Achilles had decided to forgo the war. But he was positive that after tonight, his cousin would be the first to raise his sword. And Partoclus would be right beside him, no matter how much Achilles protested. He was ready for battle, and he would prove it to his cousin and the Myrmidons, no matter what.

He headed toward Achilles' men who were bravely resisting the Trojan onslaught. The only sign of light on the beach came from the balls of fire and a pale moon by which the Greeks were given an opportunity for survival. Patroclus reached Eudorus and marched with him, driving away the enemy horsemen. He knew that Eudorus hated to see him anywhere near harm's way, on Achilles' orders, but he didn't care. When Eudorus opened his mouth to protest Patroclu's presence, the younger man cut in fiercely.

"If you are going to tell me to wait in my tent to die, your words will be in vain."

Eudorus frowned. "Follow the retreating soldiers. This is no place for you."

"I am a man, a soldier, trained by Achilles. This is the only place for me," Patroclus argued stubbornly. "I came for battle. I will have my battle," he continued, unsheathing his sword.

At that instant a horseman marched toward the pair, knocking Eudorus onto the ground with his shield. Patroclus stood in place firmly, decisively, and put his years of practice into action. He swung at the faceless horseman with his sword, cutting him across his chest before the man had a chance to react. He fell from his horse and Partoclus wasted no time. He swung his sword again, delivering the final blow. After his victory, he stood over the corpse, his chest heaving as he struggled for breath.

His first kill.

He'd killed his first man, but he felt nothing. Not pride, not regret, not guilt. Nothing. He stood still for a moment, confused. Surely a single feeling should be accompanied with killing a man, but it hadn't reached him yet. He felt a hand on his shoulder and spun around, coming face to face with Eudorus.

"You are skilled with the sword," Eudorus said, surprised.

"I am a soldier. I was born to fight. This corpse," he replied, pointing the tip of his sword to the bundle on the sand, "is my first victory. Now I shall claim more, and in the morning even more."

"You are skilled with the sword," Eudorus repeated, "but are much too young. Follow the retreating soldiers, Partoclus. Leave."

The younger man frowned. "Nobody orders me around. Either let me fight with you, or I will fight alone."

Eudorus shook his head. "It's over, Patroclus." He waved his hand in front of them. "The Trojans have receded. Their raid is over. Go back to your tent."

Patroclus looked around, realizing that Eudorus was right. The Trojans had left as quickly as they had appeared, but the Greek camp was still in chaos. He felt regret seep into him for wasting his time on Eudorus when he could have spent it raking down the enemy. Shaking his head in disappointment, mostly at himself, he left Eudorus without a word and headed back to his tent. He sat silently for a long time, and as the first rays of dawn slipped through the opening of his tent, he made his resolve. He stood up and marched toward Achilles' quarters, all the choice words he'd prepared for his cousin brimming at the tip of his tongue. As he entered, the sight that presented itself before him startled him at first, but the surprise was quickly replaced by fury.

Achilles and the Trojan woman were naked in his bed, her arm spread across his cousin's waist, both sleeping soundly. As Patroclus observed them, it became obvious why Achilles refused to fight. It wasn't because of Agamemnon or hurt pride or any of the reasons he'd thought.

It was because of a Trojan woman.

Shaking his head in disgust, he tore his eyes away from the bed and walked to where Achilles' armor was placed. He found it abandoned and cold. But on this day it would be worn, and the Greeks would defeat the Trojans. He lifted the armor, piece by piece, and returned to his tent. There he prepared himself in his cousin's war gear, and when he heard the Greeks heading for battle, he placed the helmet carefully over his head, making sure that his golden locks – the same ones his cousin had – peered out from underneath the metal. He emerged from his tent and hurried after the Greeks, making sure that the Myrmidons saw him clearly. He trudged forward in the same way Achilles did, swiftly and rapidly, his shoulders bent slightly forward.

As he passed by the ranks of the soldiers, they roared but one name – Achilles! And it didn't matter if he was Achilles in the morning because they would find him to be the fierce Petroclus in the evening as they returned from their victory. The Myrmidons bounded bravely behind him, mistaking him for their leader, and they headed to clash with the enemy.

Patroclus cut down many a soldier, swinging his sword in every which way, feeling absolutely nothing but his heartbeat thundering in his ears. The Greek soldiers were fighting furiously, their morale boosted because they thought they had the mighty Achilles in their ranks. But they had something even better – a man trained by Achilles who was smarter than to fall for an enemy woman, or any woman for that matter. He was in the heat of battle when a powerful man approached him, and Patroclus knew it was the mighty Hector. He felt a twinge of fear slice through him, but he forced it to the depths of his soul as he prepared for the moment that would make or break him.

And in that moment, as Hector swung decisively at him, he remembered Achilles' words of warning, but they were too late. He felt the cold blade cut through his throat, and everything slowed down as his last moments of life ticked by. He could feel the shock of the Greeks, even the Trojans, for they all believed the mighty Achilles had finally fallen. Patroclus stumbled back, the pain searing through his body, and Eudorus, faithful Eudorus caught him as he fell. He was slowly brought to the ground, unable to speak because his own blood was chocking him.

"M-my Lord," Eudorus managed painfully as he lifted the helmet off Patroclus' head. And he wished he could die a million deaths when he saw the face behind the mask.

"Petroclus!" He cried in disbelief, lifting his eyes to a shocked, horrified Hector. "You didn't kill Achilles, you killed a boy!"

Hector stared down at the dying boy in disbelief. The ugliness and cruelty of war presented itself to him once again, and his face darkened. He turned to his soldiers and ordered them to retreat, deciding he's had enough for the day. As the sun set slowly, painfully on the beaches of Troy, the Greeks headed back to their camp.

Eudorus walked the slowest, terrified and guilt-ridden as to how he was going to face Achilles. He held Petroclus' necklace in his hand and the Myrmidons carried his body, defeat apparent on their faces. When he approached Achilles' tent he hesitated, knowing that the worst was yet to come.

Achilles spent a portion of his day blissfully entangled in Briseis, and a portion of it furiously waiting for the Myrmidons to return from battle and explain to him what happened to obeying his command and what happened to his armor. He considered seeking out Patroclus and trying to mend their strained relations, but he knew how hotheaded and stubborn his cousin was and decided to give it some more time. Briseis, on the other hand, spent her time on the beach, and he looked after her from outside of his tent to make sure she wouldn't be harassed by anyone. He was disappointed that they had to spend another day here, in the war, when he'd been prepared to leave. But tomorrow they would set sail, even if he had to force his men to do it.

He still couldn't believe that Eudorus and the rest of his crew would betray his command. They had never done such a thing before and they had better not do it ever again, or there would be dire consequences. But as he leaned back and watched Briseis occupy herself on the beach, he realized that in the past few days many stranger things had happened. He, for instance, had given up his glory for a Trojan priestess, who was now his lover.

He frowned at the word, banishing it from his thoughts. Lover was too crude a word to describe what Briseis meant to him. She was…something he never thought he wanted, or needed. And he was the same to her, he knew that, and it pleased him. Before he couldn't care less about what the women thought of him as long as they gave their bodies to him, but before he also wouldn't be sitting while a war was being waged.

Ah, before seemed like a lifetime ago. He smiled as Briseis, _his_ Briseis, walked back from the sea, the hem of her dress drenched and entangled between her ankles. The sun was still high in the sky, its rays bouncing off her beautiful brown locks and causing her eyes to twinkle. She lifted a hand to her forehead to shield her eyes from the piercing sun.

"I thought you would tire watching me play in the water like a child," she said as she sat next to him, causing his smile to widen.

"You are anything but a child, Briseis, and I have the pleasure of knowing that." He looked at her then, searching her face for a reaction, and he read the embarrassment in her eyes. "There you go again," he continued, refusing to be disappointed. "You cannot let yourself be so shy. It will eat you up."

"I cannot stop being who I was my entire life in two days," she replied.

"Your person and your feelings are two completely different things. You're embarrassed simply because you've been taught your entire life that the ultimate intimacy shared between a man and a woman is something to be frowned upon. But you should know-"

"I _don't_ believe," she cut in sharply, "that the ultimate intimacy shared between a man and a woman is, ahem…" she faltered, unsure of how to put into words what they had shared.

"Sex?" Achilles offered simply, and her cheeks reddened a bit.

"Yes, that. That's physical. It's not forever. But what's in the heart, that's forever. That is the ultimate bond," she concluded firmly, rendering him speechless. They stared at one another for a long while until he finally mustered enough courage to speak.

"So what is in your heart, Briseis? Is there really a bond to mine? Can you even believe that I _have_ a heart?"

She tilted her head and observed him for a moment. Somewhere in the distance, a long distance away, the muffled cries of war could be heard. But here, in their place, all she heard was their breathing and the beating of her heart. She smiled, watching as his eyes softened, pleased with what she saw.

"Even if it scares you, Achilles, you do have a heart," she said finally. "And even if it scares me, there is a bond between yours and mine."

He swallowed hard as a burst of warmth erupted from somewhere deep within his chest and spread throughout his entire body, causing his fingertips to tingle. She did that to him, with a simple smile and a few words, and he knew his reaction wasn't physical, and it terrified him. He had to look away in order to regain control of the situation, in order to have the upper hand once again. In the dark he didn't have to analyze himself and she didn't force him to, and he liked that. He liked the dark. He could excuse every single emotion she stirred within him to be sexual, and it worked when she was molded against him, and he felt safe. But underneath the bright, piercing sunlight he could see the physical space between them and he still felt bursts of emotion stir within him while he had no excuse for them. He felt much safer knowing that at any moment he could die than sitting here, with her, fully clothed, and having a conversation that wasn't a precursor, intermediary, nor would be followed by sex. If he could somehow be certain of the sex factor he could excuse even this little talk they were having, but at that moment he didn't feel aroused in any way other than emotionally.

Finally he cleared his throat and stood to his feet, not knowing how to respond. As he silently went inside his tent, she followed suit, a bit afraid that she'd pushed him too hard. She had a habit of doing that with him; or rather they both had a habit of doing that to each other. While she pushed him emotionally, he pushed her physically, and it was a dangerous game they were playing. But in the end she knew, or at least she hoped that they could teach each other the pieces both of them were missing because, if she was going to give up her entire world for this man, he had better be worth it. He had better be worth it once the sun was up too, not just in the dark hours of the night.

He walked around aimlessly and she observed him from the entrance. "If it would make you feel better," she began, causing him to stop and look at her, "you could give me a bath."

She read the surprise in his eyes and couldn't help but be surprised herself. "I'm not the only one who's easy to read around here," she said, and he shook his head.

"You know," he began, but faltered, taking a step away from her. "You understand that this is difficult for me. You are a smart woman, so I know that you understand. But you are stubborn as hell and don't know when to stop."

"And you understand that this is difficult for me too," she retorted. "More difficult than it is for you. But somehow a woman is less of a coward than the mighty Achilles when it comes to this."

His eyes narrowed dangerously. "I am no coward. You better watch what you say."

"Or what?" She tested uncertainly. "You'll slit my throat?"

"Why!" He yelled, approaching her. "Why do you do it? Why isn't this enough for you?"

"Because I'm terrified! Because I'm so terrified, I'm terrified of leaving with you and I'm terrified of leaving you behind!" She yelled back at him. "There, I said it. I said it and I stand by it. But you refuse to say it, and I don't know why. Would it help if we were in bed?" She said furiously, prying a button loose on her dress. "Would it help if you had me under you, would you at least _then_ admit to something?" She undid another button and another and the curve of her breast became visible, and he stormed at her, clutching her wrists tightly.

"Stop," he ordered, shaking her. "You want me to admit something? You know that I can't! You understand who I am. Isn't that enough for you!"

She searched his eyes desperately. "I need something, _anything_. I can't stay here with nothing."

A long stretch of silence fell between them like a ton until he finally spoke.

"You mumble," he said, watching as confusion clouded her face.

"What?"

"You talk in your sleep. You…you say stuff like moonlight and mumble songs, or poetry, or something of the like." His grip on her wrists loosened and he felt the tension seep out of her body. "And I lay there just listening to you, thinking about what kind of world you lived in before you met me, fearing that it was better than the world you know now." He took in a deep breath as her face softened. "And I fight to keep my eyes open, to listen to your voice a little longer, but sleep overtakes me and I know I'm smiling as I drift away."

"Achilles-"

"And it's not wrong if I want to make love to you all the time. Most women are reassured by that. And you're wrong to think it's only physical. Maybe – maybe it was before you, Briseis, but it isn't anymore."

"Achilles," she attempted again, planting her palms on his cheeks.

"And if you ever speak of this to anyone I would have to-"

She cut him off as she pulled him into a kiss, and for a moment he was so surprised that he was frozen in place. But then the taste of her filled his mouth again, that familiar taste, and slowly he began to lose grip on reality. He had just spilled his guts to her, in the best, most awkward way he knew, and she'd simply kissed him. They were slowly learning to speak each other's language, and they were beginning to understand one another better, and he liked that.

Briseis shut her eyes tightly to keep the tears from coming out. She could still barely breathe from his confession because she realized she couldn't handle it. She thought she could, but it was too intense. And how else did she think it was going to be, coming from him? She was a fool…but she needed to be sure. And now she finally was, and it was enough.

He broke the kiss when it began to get serious, and answered her question before she had a chance to ask it. "I'm not going to validate your accusation," he said, stepping away from her.

"Okay," she agreed, shrugging. "But I still need that bath," she said innocently, causing him to laugh.

"Impossible! Impossible!" He exclaimed, grabbing her and lifting her off the floor. "Let's give you that bath, then," he said and carried her to the tub.


	11. Chapter Eleven

They sat together in silence, a blissful, content silence as they ate. He looked at her the entire time, and she gathered enough courage once in a while to meet his penetrating gaze. Although she wasn't hungry at all, she forced the food down her throat because she knew she hadn't eaten in a while. As she felt his eyes on her, boring into her very soul, the air became thicker and it became a little harder to breathe.

The sun was setting outside, she knew, and anxiously anticipated what this evening would bring. She could foretell that it would somehow, in some way, be different than the previous two. The first night he'd held her body, the second her heart, but tonight he would have her soul. And she was both terrified and exhilarated at how tonight would play out to be. Especially after a day of mutual understanding…and a bath that inadvertently turned into so much more.

He'd had someone bring the water for her, steaming hot, and somehow he'd managed to get into his possession the jasmine oil she loved so much. He spilled some into the bathwater, and then their eyes locked, and both of their chests heaved with expectation. Her hands unconsciously began fidgeting with the buttons on her dress, but in a flash he was behind her, his arms of steel around her as he pried the buttons loose. She felt his heavy breath on her ear – it was ragged and short and it made her body burn. Once he undid every button, he peeled the dress off of her, and she felt her long hair cascade across her naked back, but she didn't care. Little by little that unnecessary, girlish shyness was slipping from her reach, and she was becoming accustomed to being looked upon as a woman.

She turned around slowly, reveling in the sensations as his eyes drank her up. She saw him struggle to swallow, and it pleased her. He then took her hand and led her into the bath, and she settled comfortably inside it. It was soothing and calming, and everything that she needed – until his hands were inside there too, his large, powerful hands gently scrubbing her skin with a washcloth. Her eyes flew open to meet his impossible blue, and a shock of awareness passed between them, and they became enclosed in their bubble once again.

As he tended to her limbs and everything in between with his expert hands, she was vaguely aware that somehow, in some way, he was again making love to her. She sank deeper into the tub, her body trembling at the sensations he was causing within her. After a while she felt his hands end their roaming and she opened her eyes to find him sitting back looking at her face, his hands hanging over the rim of the tub.

She reached for his hair then, delving her fingers into the perfect locks, and he closed his eyes. She tugged his head closer and closer still, until their lips met and exploded. First the kiss was slow, innocent, but it quickly escalated until he was lifting her out of the tub. She broke the kiss then, his disappointed eyes boring into hers as he allowed her to resettle in the tub. He observed as her hand trailed over to his shoulder to undo the knot that kept his outfit in place, and understood what she intended, and it pleased him immensely. In no time he was blissfully sharing the bath with her, kissing her wet hair, her wet lips, her wet shoulders. They spent what seemed like forever in there, until the water began getting cold.

Both got out reluctantly, dried their bodies reluctantly, dressed reluctantly. All this they did in silence, their eyes speaking everything their lips dared not. The rest of the day was spent in a similar manner, by each other's side, doing simple little things and having short, light conversations that made it seem as though they could do this forever. It was a different world, for the both of them, being immersed in one another and nothing else. It was safe, ever so safe – had finally become safer than anything they had ever been used to.

But when the air thickened between them, as it did now, that safety became a little more unstable and she became a little more anxious. Deciding that she needed a walk to clear her head and her heart, she stood up slowly, her intent clear in her eyes. Achilles nodded, sorry to lose her company but knowing that she needed some time for herself, or else she would become completely unwound, and he hated when she was unwound. An unwound Briseis meant a hollow, emotionless Briseis, and he hated that. He loved to see the fire, or anger, or embarrassment, or _anything_ dancing in her eyes rather than nothing.

And so he nodded his head and she slipped out of his tent and onto the dark beach. She walked slowly, vaguely aware that the soldiers had returned from the battle, a little more demoralized than they had been yesterday. As she felt that twinge of happiness erupt from somewhere inside her, there was some guilt laced with it, and she became frustrated. When she was with Achilles, fighting with him, sitting with him, making love to him – all that her world consisted of was Achilles, and she was to herself Briseis, _Achilles'_ Briseis. But as she walked along the beach, she began to remember what it was like to be Troy's Briseis, and the anguish of guilt and uncertainty bore down on her, tearing her heart in two.

Although she didn't want to, she began to remember, and she became aware of her two realities once again. On the one side she was the niece of Troy's king, and on the other she was Achilles' lover. The two completely impossible situations had managed to bore themselves into the life and heart of only one person, and she thought she would explode. She came to the shore as everything fell on her, striking her down like a powerful blow, and she lost her footing. She found herself sitting numbly on the sand, staring out into the dark waters before her.

What was she to do? How was she to leave Troy when she had been a Trojan her entire life? Or, on the other impossible end, how was she to leave Achilles when he had become her entire world? She knew there was no possible way to alleviate the situation, for whichever half of herself she chose to live with, she knew the other half would die.

And then she realized that even if she decided to return to Troy, she would have to live with the guilt of betraying her country as well as the anguish of leaving Achilles behind. But if she remained with Achilles, she would always be a Trojan and would have the man she loved by her side.

_The man she loved?_

Briseis frowned. When had…what did she understand about love? Up until three days ago she understood nothing about men, and now she was speaking of love? If love made it difficult to breathe, if it caused every inch of her body to burn, if it made her want to be next to Achilles all the time – then perhaps she was indeed in love. Then, perhaps she understood her dear cousin Paris' decision to wage a war for Helen, for she would surely wage a war for Achilles. She decided that she would do anything for Achilles, and perhaps it was a bit naïve, or completely naïve, but she didn't care.

She loved him.

Feeling more secure about the past few days than ever before, she stood up decisively and headed back to her haven. But as she approached the black tent and saw the argument that had ensued, as she saw Achilles chocking Eudorus to his death, everything she had just decided on became a distant memory.

- - -

When Eudorus' head poked into his tent, Achilles immediately knew that something was terribly wrong. He also knew that it had nothing to do with the Myrmidons betraying his command. It was much more than that, much more complicated, much more dreaded. His face quickly transformed into a mask of stone as he followed Eudorus outside. His eyes observed the man's closed fist, then traveled back to his tortured green eyes.

"My Lord," Eudorus attempted, his voice faltering for the first time in his life.

"What is it, Eudorus?" Achilles pressed.

"My Lord, something terrible happened today."

Achilles' frown deepened. "I know. You disobeyed my order."

"But…we didn't. My Lord, we thought…it was you marching today, and so we followed."

The dread began to spread as Eudorus spoke. "What are you talking about?"

"My Lord, he moved exactly like you. His movements were flawless. He wore your armor."

Achilles became increasingly disturbed, and a moment passed before he finally understood. He raked his clouded, unreadable eyes over the beach. "Patroclus," he said harshly. "Where is Patroclus?"

"My Lord," Eudorus attempted, but Achilles brushed him aside.

"Patroclus!" he yelled, unable to allow himself the realization that had already formed in his mind.

"He wore your armor today," Eudorus managed finally, loosening his grip on the young man's necklace. "We thought it was you," he offered weakly, shrinking when Achilles' furious eyes turned on him. "And Hector...he came toward him. And we thought it was you."

He saw the flash of white in Eudorus' hand, and he knew. Pain seared throughout him, pain like he had never known before, and everything happened in a flash. Eudorus' throat was clutched tightly in his hand, but still he felt nothing other than the pain. He heard nothing, not Eudorus' chokes, not Briseis' screams as she begged him to stop.

Patroclus had died.

He wanted to howl like a wild animal. Instead he clutched harder, until he felt her tiny hands on his arm, attempting to save a life. His mad eyes turned to her, Hector's little cousin, and the fury in him grew.

"Stop! Achilles, stop!" She begged him, trying to prevent his steel of an arm from choking Eudorus to death. When his furious, furious eyes fell on her, she felt the fear fill her, and saw the monster she'd witnessed in Apollo's temple.

He dismissed Eudorus with a simple wave of his hand and the man fell to the ground, gasping for breath. He had known, ever since he'd lifted the helmet to reveal Patroclus' dying face that a million deaths would be more welcome than delivering the news to Achilles, whose fury was now completely directed at a terrified Briseis.

Her eyes widened when she saw his hand reach for her neck this time, and she stumbled backward, to no avail. She felt those fingers close around her neck, around her life, the same fingers that had ever so gently strummed across her naked body earlier that day. She looked upon the man that she loved, or the man she thought she loved, and he wasn't that man. He was a warrior once again, an unearthed beast whose territory had been crossed. As her body began to get weaker and weaker, she managed out a bitter chuckle at the irony of it all.

The man who had given her the life she never could have imagined was going to end it as well.

The man who owned her body and her soul was going to send both to the underworld, and she would never be in this place again. And suddenly it all came back to her in a flash - being shoved into his tent, stopping him from dying because of her, foolishly thinking she could end his life, being pressed underneath him as he took her old life and gave her a new one, being honored (_honored?_) as his guest, being told that she mumbles in her sleep, sharing her bath with him – it all came back to her at the moment when he was taking it all away, and she couldn't help but let out a bitter chuckle, and he froze.

He froze, for a million different reasons – mostly for her life and for his sanity. He released her as a new wave of anger engulfed him, anger at himself and anger at fate for dealing him such a despised card. He'd almost killed her, had almost choked her to death, and the realization made him tremble with fear.

_I could have forgiven a dumb brute._

His eyes locked with hers, and when he saw her tears they sliced through his heart. He wanted to explain himself to her, to tell her that _her_ cousin had killed _his_ cousin, a boy inexperienced in battle. He wanted to erase the fear from her eyes and erase the look that told him she had no idea who he was. But she did, because he was that man who made love to her, who held her, who promised to her – he _was_ that man.

But he was also a warrior.

And he would always be a warrior.

He took a step forward, but she retreated quickly, running away into the dark beach, and he lacked the emotional and physical strength to follow her.

Instead, he pushed down the burst of regret and agony at having hurt her, and turned back to Eudorus who was standing once again.

"Here, my Lord," the faithful man said cautiously, presenting Patroclus' necklace to him.

And the pain slammed into him again.

He took the white beads speechlessly and retreated to his dim quarters. Once inside, he slumped onto the floor, clutching the beads so tightly that his knuckles turned white. He wasn't used to so many conflicting feelings bearing down at him all at once. There was the pain because of his cousin's death, and the fury that came with it, but there was also the pain of having hurt Briseis and knowing that he will hurt her yet again for he must take vengeance for his cousin. And the pain he felt because of Petroclus was different from the pain he felt because of Briseis; the pain for his cousin gnawed at his heart while the pain for Briseis gnawed at his soul. Both were searing and unbearable, but one would subside while the other would remain with him forever.

He blew out a heavy breath, attempting to lessen some of the burden that weighed down on his shoulders. Part of that burden was carried by the warrior, but a large part of it was carried by the man within him. And that man, he decided, was weak, and he detested him – but it was that man upon whom Briseis looked so fondly and allowed to touch her. And so he had to keep that man, no matter how much it hurt, because it would hurt worse if she always looked upon him as a warrior.

And he hated when she looked upon him as a warrior. The fear and disgust were evident in her eyes, as they had been in the moment he'd turned on her, and he hated it.

Yet he couldn't kill that warrior because, until Briseis, that warrior was all he knew.

And that warrior was moving around numbly now, reaching for his weapons, sharpening them for his meeting with Hector. That warrior was oblivious when her tiny form reappeared in his presence, didn't care that she walked to the farthest corner and turned her face away from him, hugging her legs close to her protectively like she had done upon their first encounter.

An hour passed, perhaps even two, neither of them could be certain. The only sound that broke the silence inside the tent was the steady rhythm of metal against metal as he sharpened his weapons. The man in him observed her carefully from the corner of his eye, recoiling every time she flinched at the sounds he was making.

Eventually he grew satisfied with his work, or perhaps he grew tired, he wasn't sure, and sat back. He stared at the metal before him, metal that would spill blood in the morning, and the knot in his chest only grew tighter, making it harder to breathe.

He raked his gaze over her, and seeing that she had fallen asleep in her pathetic corner, decided that he had no use to stay up either. He retired to his bed, and tonight it was cold and uncomfortable without her by his side.

But tonight everything had changed. And tomorrow even that would change.

- - -

She wasn't there when he awoke, and he decided that it was better. It made what he was about to do a lot easier. The act itself was quite simple, and the intent behind it was as well. But the relation of the man he'd marked for death made everything very complicated, and so it made the act difficult too.

But not having her accusing eyes look at him while he prepared for the dual lessened some of that. He could get ready in peace – but he was the farthest thing from having peace. He was warring with himself, warring with what he had to do and what he yearned to do. As a warrior he had to have his revenge, and he yearned for it too, but as a man he had to have his Briseis and he yearned for her just as much.

But the man in him was weak, he knew that clearly, and so the warrior prepared to earn his revenge. As he stepped outside, his chariot was waiting for him. His face was a mask of stone as he stepped upon it and whipped his horse. He began moving, and everything was so easy until he heard her anguished pleas. She was running alongside him, attempting to pull on his leg, his arm, whatever she could reach, begging for her cousin's life. He dared not look at her, certainly not at her face or into her eyes, so he whipped the horse again, harder, and easily left her behind in the dust. Her pleas dimmed with the distance until all he could hear was his warrior's heart thundering in his warrior's chest.

When he reached the walls of Troy they were waiting for they knew. He roared Hector's name like an unleashed beast until the man finally appeared before him, and he began working on his revenge.

And after several decisive blows, revenge was his.


	12. Chapter Twelve

She remained standing in the same place long after he and his chariot had disappeared, unable to accept either of the two realities that would unquestionably come to be. Either he would return and she would lose her cousin, or he would never return and she would lose her beloved. And so she stood frozen in one spot, well aware of the Greek soldiers' eyes on her, but she didn't care. She felt those two halves of herself – her Trojan half and the half that belonged to Achilles – she felt them collide within her until it became difficult to breathe. After the sun climbed high in the sky, she somehow decided through her grief that she should probably return to the safety (_safety?_) of Achilles' tent and seek refuge from both the heat and the danger the enemy soldiers posed to her.

She walked back to the tent, retracing the steps Achilles took as he left for his doom, or the doom of her cousin – both equally horrible. She slipped inside, her gaze sweeping over the unmade bed fleetingly, a bed whose comforts were now just a bittersweet memory. She made her way to that fateful spot in the farthest corner and sat numbly on the sheepskin, awaiting either the news that her cousin had died or that her Achilles had died. Some time afterward - she wasn't sure how much of it passed - she felt the tears roll down her face. Thick, heavy, scathing tears.

And in those moments the tiny seeds of doubt and regret began to grow inside of her. Doubt about what she'd convinced herself that this relationship, if it could even be branded as a relationship, meant to both her and Achilles. Doubt about what she'd begun to think of him, whether it was a reality or simply an excuse she'd made in her mind to justify her actions and her feelings. And after the doubt the regret hit her cold and hard - regret about letting him touch her, reveling in his embrace, aching for his kiss, relaxing at the sound of his voice. She'd told herself that she would never regret, that she could never regret – but how could she not when he went to murder her cousin, knowing well what it would do to her?

She must have been a fool thinking that he would change his entire life because of her, an inexperienced, naïve priestess who was a virgin until she met him. She was indeed a fool, and the realization of it hurt the most, more than anything else. She was a fool to think that she loved him for he was a monster. He was the same monster he'd been that first time her eyes fell upon him in the temple of Apollo, and once again she wished that she had been slain rather than given a chance to betray her county and herself. Now she could neither turn back time, nor could she flee, nor could she live with herself – she was trapped. She was trapped in her misery and her regret and the searing pain that nearly paralyzed her.

How could she have been so stupid and so blind? Why did she have to be so idealistic, even when she was well aware of the reality? Why did she make him up to be something that he wasn't, something he didn't even want to be, and why did she convince herself that she loved that person? She'd convinced herself that she was in love with someone who didn't even exist. The Achilles she loved was a mere figment of her imagination; the Achilles who had left to murder her cousin was the one who was real.

Sometime afterward the tears and the sobs subsided. Briseis remained huddled in her corner feeling completely empty. There was nothing inside her anymore, no fear, no anger, no hope. She was a shell of the girl she once used to be, a carefree girl who used to run on the beaches of Troy with her beloved cousins. All that had been taken from her within a span of just a few hours, and now she was left with nothing.

But as she noticed the day getting older, something began to move within her and she knew she was lying to herself. She didn't know whether to be relieved that she was still capable of feeling, or to hate herself for what she was feeling because, as the hours wore on, the fear began to slip through the walls she thought had been safely raised around her heart.

The fear wasn't for her, however, it was for him. The longer he took to come back, the more she became convinced that he would never come back.

And so, once again, she became completely frustrated and confused as another storm began to brew within her. She should be happy that her cousin had survived, her beloved, brave Hector. She should be ecstatic that he had lived for he had a wife and a son, while Achilles had nothing but his arrogance.

_And me_, she thought, startling herself.

She felt her heart break then, for the both of them, for the impossible hope she'd been harboring and the impossible situation she thought they would eventually find themselves in. She was so utterly confused that she couldn't figure out whether she hated or loved him, whether the man she hated existed or the man she loved existed, or whether the both of them existed in the same person, and whether that was even possible. She let out a troubled sigh, closing her eyes and wishing herself to death. At least in death she would find some kind of peace.

_And in death she would find him waiting._

The neigh of a horse startled her and she jolted, her eyes flashing open at the moment when he entered the tent. He ignored her completely as he stood before his washbasin, or perhaps he didn't see her, and instead he busied himself as he washed away the traces of the battle and removed the heavy armor from his body.

She felt her heart swell within her chest, hating herself for it, and in the same instant hating what she'd always hated – war, and all the horrors it brought upon everyone. She observed him as the bile formed in her stomach, threatening to spill from her lips and take her soul along with it.

After a long, anguished silence, she finally spoke, slightly unaware that words were coming from her mouth.

"When does it end?" she asked, her voice broken and unsure.

"It never ends," he replied without looking at her.

"You murdered my cousin," she observed painfully, the tears forming in her eyes.

"And he murdered mine," Achilles said, still unable to meet her gaze.

"He thought it was you. But you…you _knew_."

His furious eyes flashed at her then, and she shrank away from him. "It has nothing to do with you, Briseis. War is war whether you're involved or not." After a moment, he added, "and you're not."

"I'm here, aren't I? In some way or another, we are all involved in the war."

"Don't torture yourself over what you have no control over," he said gruffly, turning to face her. "You're pained over the loss of your cousin, as I was pained over the loss of mine."

She frowned. "So in your logic, it is my turn to lift a sword against you in revenge."

Something passed across his face, quick and torturous, but he corrected his composure so fast she thought she'd imagined it. "You already tried it once, and we both know how that turned out."

She heard the mockery in his voice, loud and clear, and it made her blood boil. _How_ could this be the same person who'd told her yesterday that she mumbles in her sleep? It seemed impossible, but it was just as impossible to both hate and love that same person with the same intensity, and yet she did.

"You…make me sick," she choked out, raising to her feet and dashing for the exit. But his arm reached out, his long fingers latching around her shoulder as he jerked her back. She let out a tiny gasp, either out of surprise or fear, he wasn't sure. His free hand closed around her other arm and he held her tightly against him, furious at her for saying what she did and furious at himself for causing her to feel that way.

"Do you understand," he ground out, blue eyes burning into brown ones, "that I had no choice!"

"_Everyone_ has a choice," she replied with equal intensity, causing him to grip her closer and tighter, and another gasp escaped her as the blood rushed to her middle, fast and hot.

"What about your choices? Are you going to punish me because of the choices you made?"

She stared at him, aware how his face was mere inches away from hers, his face that was twisted into a million different emotions.

"My choices have nothing to do with you," she spat out at him, and he reacted by pulling her off her feet. His eyes had widened and the usually clear blue was thick and dark, causing her heart to race.

"Let go of me," she demanded, gripping his rock-hard arms. When he didn't budge, she began to twist against him. "Let go-"

And then his lips were on hers again, furious lips against furious lips, two desperate souls attempting to quench the searing pain that threatened to break them both. He felt her fingernails dig into his skin, but she wasn't trying to push him away, she was clinging onto him for dear life. He kissed her hard, delving his tongue into her mouth as the passion overtook him, and for a little while both of them forgot. Somehow he'd placed her back on her feet and her hands were entangled in his hair as she pulled his head toward hers.

They broke the kiss to gasp for air, and both dived in again, furiously fighting one another for control of the situation. He stepped forward and she stepped back, her hip hitting the washbasin and knocking it over. The clatter of metal against the floor startled her and she bit his lip, unaware of it until she tasted the blood, but he refused to break the kiss. Not only did it not hurt him, it enticed him further as he ground his hips against hers, causing a moan to escape from her throat. They stumbled back and fell on the bed, and his hands were everywhere, and she liked it. He kissed her mouth hungrily as if she could somehow heal him, but he knew that she was just as broken as him. If she could somehow crawl into him and fill that void that he'd made today, maybe he would feel a little bit better, and she a little less horrible.

And so he continued to ravage her mouth with his and her body with his hands as he pushed her dress higher and higher. She dug her fingernails into his shoulders as he ground against her, their clothes the only barrier between them and ecstasy. He wanted to show her, and at the same time show himself, that the warrior from today was separate from the man at this moment. The warrior from today needed the battle, but the man needed this, needed her gasping his name, surrendering to her desires and drowning in him the way he drowned in her. And so he kissed her and she kissed him back, and he pushed her dress above her hips, and she jerked her head away from his.

"Stop…stop," she whispered, her voice hoarse and unsure. He froze above her for a moment, but one look at her swollen lips and he dipped his head in again only to receive the cold brush of her cheek.

"Get off," she said a little more firmly, trying to push him away with those tiny, tiny hands. "Don't touch me, don't…" she almost sobbed, and he rolled off of her. She sat up and pulled her dress over her legs, and he trembled as he watched her.

Why was she doing this to herself, to him? Why couldn't she just allow this for herself, why couldn't she accept that this moment had nothing to do with anything that was happening beyond the cover of his tent?

"Briseis," he said almost weakly, reaching out to her, but she shrank away from his touch.

"You think that…I can let you do this now while I sat here today, knowing well you would murder my cousin?" Her eyes were wide, filled with tears she refused to shed.

"You were doing this, too," he said stubbornly, and she recoiled at his words.

"You have his blood on your hands, and your hands were…" she chocked out, shuddering visibly before him, and his chest tightened. "I was a fool, a stupid, stupid fool, but I'm wiser now. You can't…I won't let you, at least not willingly." One teardrop escaped from her eye, spilling over the side of her cheek. She stood up, testing her shaky legs, and walked toward the entrance.

"Where are you going?" He demanded, causing her to hesitate.

"I cannot bear to look at the monster who murdered my cousin," she said almost viciously.

Achilles felt that familiar anger begin to boil inside of him and he shot up to his feet. "Yet you could bear kissing me," he said angrily, and she spun around.

Her lips parted as if to say something, but she was speechless. After all, it was the truth. She couldn't resist him, not even now. She hated what he'd done, but she knew that she could never hate him, or the sensations he aroused within her, and it scared her. It terrified her.

"You cannot fault me for something I have little control over," she said finally, but it was a weak comeback.

"I don't fault you. I want you," he said, his voice thickening as her resolve thinned. "I want you to lose control. There's nothing wrong with losing control."

"There is, when the other person is you," she disagreed. "I don't know what happens now. I don't care. I know only one thing – I regret it."

Achilles recoiled at the confession. It was the one thing he could not bear, and yet it was happening, and it hurt.

"I regret all of it," Briseis continued, the words dripping from her lips like ice. "I regret ever laying eyes upon you. But most of all, I regret ever thinking that you were anything other than a monster. You are a monster, and I hate you."

And then she was gone.

It took him a long time to regain the feeling in his legs, and once he did he walked slowly, ever so slowly around the tent, tempted to break everything into a million pieces the way he had that first night Briseis had been taken from him. And for a fleeting moment he regretted his actions from that day. But then the moment was gone and he was back to normal.

Except…he wasn't.

He sat still for a long time, thinking about nothing in particular. He had no idea how everything had become such a mess. Before he came to Troy, it was all so simple. He'd come, he'd fight, and he'd have his glory. Maybe he'd enjoy himself with a war prize, maybe he wouldn't – it hadn't mattered back then. But then she was there, and she was anything but a war prize. Proud, stubborn, innocent – all the traits he never wanted in a woman. The only trait he used to look for was that she was a _woman_. But then she reached out and touched him like nobody had done before, and she made him almost human.

The mortality he was used to. He craved it. But the humanity – she made it real in him somehow.

And then she took it all away.

_You are a monster and I hate you_.

Maybe she didn't mean those words; maybe she was reacting to her pain in the only way she knew how, the same way he'd reacted the night before when he'd almost choked her. He hadn't meant to, he was just so enraged that he needed to unleash it on someone, anyone. So maybe now, she was furious and in pain and he was the only person she could turn on, and so she did. After all, he didn't detect any hate in her voice when she'd moaned his name, or kissed his lips, or clutched him with those impossibly tiny hands of hers. But then–

_I regret all of it_.

Did she, really? He didn't, not a single moment, especially since it seemed like they would have no more moments together. She may let him get close to her in the heat of passion, but once that subsided she would always push him away. And he wouldn't force her because he couldn't. He couldn't hurt her, in any way, and it tore him apart that he already had, in the worst way possible. But she had to understand that no matter how much it pained him to do it – and it had pained him terribly – it pained him just the same to not do it. If she'd lost her cousin, he'd lost his as well, and Patroclus was far younger and far more inexperienced than Hector had been, and he didn't deserve to die.

Yet none of his reasons helped to ease the knot in his chest.

When someone shuffled at the entrance of the tent, he became tense, preparing himself for another round with Briseis. Instead of her, however, a cloaked form appeared and kneeled before him. His eyebrows furrowed in confusion and surprise when the person took his hands and kissed them. The stranger sat back and pushed the hood from his face to reveal his identity.

It was Priam, king of Troy.

"I come to you as a father who has lost the one thing he loved most in this world," the old king began hoarsely. "My son met you in battle today because he was honorable. He killed your young cousin unwittingly, but he allowed you to have his body to perform the proper burial. I am begging you, not as a king, but as a grieving father, to give my son the honor of a proper burial."

Achilles sat speechless. He had sworn to mutilate Hector's face beyond recognition, yet he could not deny this honorable – and desperate – plea that the old man was making. He also realized that the old man was a fool to risk his life like this and that, if he wanted, he could have his head on a platter as well.

_You are a monster._

Her words echoed in his mind and he frowned. "You are a fool for coming here," he heard his gruff voice state his thoughts.

"I may be a fool," the old man agreed, "but I need to give my son the honor of a proper burial. I beg of you, as a soldier, to allow your opponent this last right."

Achilles sat quietly as if to contemplate further, but the decision had already been made in his mind. He stood up and walked outside and busied himself with fulfilling Priam's request. He knelt over Hector's body and his face twisted in pain.

"Until we meet again, brother," he said quietly and stood up.

Priam came out a few moments later, gratefully thanking Achilles on his show of respect. The two men were about to part when that familiar voice rang in the quiet of the night, and both turned to see Briseis running toward them.

"Uncle!" She said uncertainly as she hurried toward Priam. He embraced her happily and Achilles stood back, painfully acknowledging to himself what he would have to do.

"My dear Briseis, we all thought you had perished," her uncle said as they separated. She stole a quick glance at Achilles before answering him.

"No, I have been alright uncle."

"Nobody has hurt you?"

Their eyes met again for a brief moment, and then she looked away.

"No."

He breathed a sigh of relief. His hands worked at loosening the shells from around his neck, and when Priam turned to him with his question, Achilles could only say yes.

_Yes, take her away and leave me without any trace of my humanity._

_Yes, take her away and allow me to go back to my dark, empty, blood-thirsty world, although I am well aware that it will never again satisfy me._

_Yes, take her._

As Priam stood upon his chariot, Achilles approached her for the last time, taking her tiny hands into his own.

"If I have hurt you in any way," he said, his voice wavering, "it was not my intention." He closed her hands around his necklace and she stared at him, dazed and confused and reluctant – _reluctant? _– to go.

She mounted the chariot next to her uncle, and he heard the whip through the bubble that had once again formed around them, and slowly she began to recede from his vision until all he could see was the black night.

She was gone.


	13. Chapter Thirteen

Sometimes nothing makes sense. Sometimes, everything becomes a blur – intentions, feelings, actions, regrets – and the victim of it all is left crippled, not knowing how to react or what to do. And war, as it turned out, was indeed an ugly thing. War had taken from him something – _two­ _things – he never could have anticipated. One of them he never could have anticipated losing, the other he _never_ in his craziest imagination could have anticipated being lost without. But now he bore the burnt of both, and it threatened to drive him mad.

The evening without her had been next to unbearable. It was worse not having her there at all, rather than having her stare at him in disgust. He realized, with some reluctant difficulty, that having her in the mere vicinity calmed him excessively. She was like an antidote that slowly, but powerfully seeped into his veins, healing him from all the lethal diseases he never knew plagued his body or his soul. But now that she was gone, and with her absence had taken her healing power, he was once again decaying into oblivion, only this time he was all too painfully aware of it. He could plainly see his blunders, his savagery, and his lack of humanity, and it unnerved him. He wasn't supposed to care. None of the above was supposed to matter for he was a warrior, and he behaved as a warrior should.

But to be a warrior he'd had to deny himself everything else, even the one thing he prided himself over those in Olympus. The only difference was that before he hadn't been aware of it. But now it assaulted him from every angle.

Mortality, as he'd seen it, had been nothing other than a primitive indulgence.

But then she'd taken him by the hand and shown him, quite unwittingly, what mortality truly meant. She'd shown him the beauty, the stunning beauty he'd been blind toward until the moment when her innocent, searing eyes burned into his. And then everything was so unbearably beautiful and intense. He was human and he could feel it, not from the way his body responded to her touch, but from the way his pulse quickened and his soul trembled.

He could actually laugh at the very notion. It would be a bitter laugh, but a laugh nonetheless, at the concept of him having a soul. He was Achilles, the one and only who neither needed nor desired such a pesky nuisance that a soul eventually became to every man. But now, when she'd taken it back with her, not only did he desire it, he felt eternally at a lost without it.

He would regret, if he could, ever laying his eyes on her. He would regret all of it, as a warrior, and would be disgusted at himself for his actions and, most importantly, for allowing himself the feelings that were eventually the downfall of every man that ever walked upon the earth. He would regret it, he would despise it – only if he could. But now that he'd seen the other side, now that he'd felt what it was like to be on the other side, it was impossible to want to regret or despise or turn back. And that was the worst situation of them all. He could neither go back, nor could he move forward, nor could he bear staying in the same place he found himself in.

But that wasn't the only thing that was eating away at him. He knew, as he watched dawn slowly break through the thick blankets of the night, that today he would have to say goodbye to the one person among the very few he'd rather die for than see dead. Today he'd have to place his beloved Patroclus' body upon the funeral pyre and watch him burn. Today he'd have to feel his heart break once more, for the third time in his life. The first time had been when he'd heard the news of his cousin's death, the second was when he'd watched Briseis ride away knowing well that he would never see her again, and the third time would be today when the flames engulfed Patroclus' body and made the reality all too obvious.

He wanted to end this tirade of emotions within him. He wished he'd never opened that massive door that he was now powerless to close, and he feared he would be just as powerless for the rest of his existence. This fate didn't belong to him; it _shouldn't_ belong to him for he was Achilles, not some sniveling, pathetic man who occurs too often in romantic poetry. It was too cruel a coincidence and too painful a circumstance that it should indeed be so, that he – Achilles – should be suffering in such a way, or suffering at all.

_Your glory walks in hand with your doom._

His mother's words echoed in his tormented head, confusing him. Was this to be his doom, this wretched end he never could have anticipated? When she'd spoken those words to him – his most beloved, wise, beautiful mother – the doom he'd pictured had been nothing short of a glorious death after a well-fought battle. The pain he'd imagined would be inflicted by a sword or a spear, or both, not by the loss of a woman. Or even worse, was his doom to be the complete loss of himself, for that was surely occurring since he could no longer recognize who he was or what was becoming of him. To be so affected, so plagued by such a trivial matter – it never would have come to pass before. But before was a distant memory, and now was all he had to hold on to.

The day was spent agonizingly preparing for Patroclus' funeral that would take place at sunset. He took it upon himself to perform all the funeral rites for his young cousin for it was the least Patroclus deserved. He had been young, hotheaded, stubborn – but his heart had been in the right place. It was that heart that ultimately got him killed, and now Achilles was left to deal with the unbearable guilt and regret of it all. Guilt on one side for his abandoning the war for some woman, which had been the cause for Patroclus' downfall; and guilt still on the other side for backtracking on firm decisions he'd made because of his deep, undeniable connection to Briseis. It was that connection that had cost him his cousin, and it was the loss of his cousin that had cost him that connection. He'd never imagined that so many things could be so explicitly intertwined, yet they were. She'd been right when she'd told him that somehow or another, _everyone_ was involved in the war. He'd refused to believe it because before that had never been the case. It hadn't, at least not for the _everyone_ in _his_ life. But then he'd come to Troy and all the rules had changed and with them so had he. However, there was no point dwelling on the subject any further. It was over, it was done, and he had to move on.

With a heavy heart, just before sunset, he walked to Patroclus' body that lay on the funeral pyre. He held the young man's beads tightly in his hand, placing them onto his body after many excruciating moments of attempting to silently say goodbye. He finally did it, and as he walked away another piece of him broke, a piece he would never be able to repair. Moments later the fire was lit, slowly swallowing any remaining proof that the young Patroclus had ever walked upon the earth.

Achilles watched all this with a heavy heart and an even heavier conscience. The war had finally taken something great from him, something he never expected, and it was a strange occurrence to witness the tables so suddenly and so viciously turned against him. This was the most difficult thing he'd ever had to do, apart from allowing Briseis – beautiful, kind Briseis – to leave. He now felt a part of that agony she'd felt for Hector, but she would probably never know that. She would probably never understand that he was capable of feeling things just as intensely as she was and that they tortured him even more for he had long ago forbidden himself to feel anything.

He looked torturously at the setting sun, noting how the sparks of fire jumped into the air before disappearing into oblivion. It was somehow too surreal, too unlikely to be true, yet he was witnessing it before his very eyes. Patroclus had been precious to him; he'd been among the only two – and after Troy, three – people he'd ever loved. Achilles had always felt a need to protect him, to take him under his wing and slowly shape him into the man he could never be. But he saw that all the years had been spent in vain for in the very end, Patroclus was his own person and he made his own decisions, no matter how rash they had been. It bothered Achilles to no end, yet if he were to be honest with himself, he was no different. He always made rash decisions, acted on impulse, not caring what the outcome may be because, in the end, he always survived. That was the only difference. He always survived for he knew how to survive, but Patroclus hadn't. And that was why it was his body upon the pyre, not Achilles'.

But if someone could look into his soul, they'd see it was rotting faster than any thing on earth. He'd discovered it some very few days ago, only to lose it just as quickly and painfully for the source of his discovery and the nourishment of his soul had been taken away from him.

When the dark had enveloped the beach and Patroclus' body was no more, the Greek soldiers slowly retreated to their lodgings. Achilles was the last to leave, not having uttered a single word the entire day, nor having met a single eye, not even with his faithful men. When he entered his own quarters, he realized just how sorely he missed her. She should have been there, sitting on his bed, anticipating his return. She should have been there with her wide eyes, welcoming him into the shelter of her arms and the warmth of her soul. He would have allowed her to take _him_ into _her_ arms and, without a word, soothe his troubled soul. He would have allowed her this, he knew, for once to see him so utterly weak and vulnerable.

His own silent confession startled him, and then infuriated him. He dropped onto his bed, exhausted of fighting off all the senseless emotions that threatened to break him. He was a warrior and a warrior was never weak or vulnerable. A warrior never sought the shelter of a woman's feeble arms; a warrior never sought _any_ shelter.

But as the memories and regrets and guilt began pounding on him, he slowly allowed himself to be less of a warrior and more of a man, if only for one night. As his body slowly succumbed to the dark abyss that was sleep, he allowed a tiny sliver of light to penetrate the darkness until it became bright as the sun. He allowed her smile to escape from his locked memory and into his reluctant dreams until, ever so gradually, she became all he could see and feel.

- - -

Briseis awoke with a start. She wished she could stay asleep forever for the day that would ensue would be the worst in her life. She lay silently in her bed, staring blankly at nothing in particular until she felt her eyes begin to burn, a small forewarning to the tears that would follow. It had been a terrible set of hours, the worst she'd ever lived through, to the point that she was sure the reality would suffocate her and force her into a most welcomed death. But no such thing happened, to her great disappointment, for each time she felt was her last moment, the agony would subside just enough to allow her to breathe, but never enough to allow her any peace or comfort. Slowly she became aware of his shells around her neck, and as she realized that they were there, she felt them weigh down on her, threatening to smother her with the unbearable burden of their presence and all the feelings they roused within her.

The tears escaped the confines of here eyes, spilling over the curves of her cheeks, burning her skin as they slid down her face. A week ago she never could have imagined that she would be in this place as the person she was now, wishing more for death than the life she would have to acknowledge and live with once she left the shelter of her room. She remembered the events from last night ever so vividly, and they would forever remain engraved in her memory, she was positive of it. She remembered how his shells had formed crevices in her palm as she'd clutched them tighter and tighter the farther her uncle's chariot stole her away from him. She hadn't even been aware of the ferocity with which she'd held onto them until she'd felt a piercing pain and looked down to see the scarlet blood trickle onto the white shells. The ride had been silent, her uncle both overjoyed and troubled by having found here where he had. And she had been – by her life, what _hadn't_ she been?

Emotions, such as she'd never experienced before, had slammed into her, knocking the very breath out of her. There was a little bit of everything, felt with such intensity that could have split her into a million pieces. Sorrow, deep, undeniable sorrow at leaving him behind. Guilt for feeling that sorrow, and still more guilt for reacting to his killing Hector the way she did. Regret at the last words she'd spoken to him – _I hate you_ – for she could never hate him, even if she tried, which she had indeed attempted to do. Anxiety at returning to her family and still anxiety at attempting to live life without him for he had become her family. Then there was the pain, pain for losing Hector to him, and pain for him losing Patroclus to Hector, and pain for knowing that there could never be any favorable conclusion to the fate of their relationship. And there were a million other emotions swirling furiously within her, emotions she dared not put a name on or acknowledge.

So when they entered the walls of Troy and when her family greeted her with the utmost relief and love, she was forced to banish all these emotions and smile for them, smile for beloved Andromache and hide the fact that she loved the man Hector's widow despised, smile for Paris and hide the fact that she desperately missed his brother's murderer, and smile for all of Troy as though she'd never betrayed it, knowing well that if she was given the chance, she would do it all over again.

Once the relief and joy of her family had subsided, she felt the overwhelming agony that Hector's death had produced in every corner of Troy. It seeped into her veins and battled fiercely with her own agony of leaving Achilles behind, and once again she was left utterly confused and exhausted. After she retired to her quarters, which were now so unbelievably dull and cold to her without his presence, she allowed the torment to unleash itself on her and make her world even darker. She wasn't sure when she'd gone to sleep, but she knew it was the most restless and pointless slumber she'd ever had, one she was sure would persist until the end of her days. The agonies she suffered were even unknown to her, but she felt each one like a burning coal on the surface of her skin, eating away at her in the most vicious and painful manner.

With the new day came a new challenge for she had to get dressed and prepare for Hector's funeral, but she could no longer wear any of the robes she'd committed her life and heart to before the Greek onslaught. She would have to exit her chambers and greet her family with the guilt and shame of no longer being a priestess, and they would all know who had taken that honor away from her, and she couldn't bear it. Whether they would know that she'd released herself from her oath willingly she wasn't sure, but she hoped with every fiber of her being that they wouldn't. Somehow she hoped that nobody would notice the color of her robes at all, but she was well aware that the hope was futile.

Exiting her bedchamber, Briseis cast her eyes to the ground and proceeded to join her family for breakfast. Their shock upon seeing her dressed in blue was undeniable, but thankfully nobody said a word. Dearest Andromache bore it in the most restrained manner, even though she had the most right to despise her. The day passed in silence, at least for Briseis, for she could find no words to say to any one person around her. Everything that she'd loved and grown up with had become so alien to her, to the point that several things even repulsed her. There was a sense of honor deeply rooted in every corner of the palace, in every corner of Troy even, but the atmosphere lacked _his_ presence and _his_ ferocity that she'd grown accustomed to, and even comfortable with. She yearned for his blue eyes, bluer than the Aegean, yearned for the shelter of his arms even though she knew that in some way she was safer without him.

But none of her reasoning eased the overwhelming desire in her heart for him. Not even the anger she'd felt last night could alleviate the yearning he'd embedded in the very core of her being. She wondered where he was at that moment, at every moment that passed without him by her side, wondered if he thought of her the way she thought of him, incessantly and with a broken heart.

She knew that he was preparing for the funeral of his cousin the way Troy was preparing for hers. She'd felt his insufferable grief at Patroclus' death, and she was ashamed to admit that her own grief at Hector's death could never match his, but then again none of her emotions could ever match his. His were great and powerful just like him, every single one of them. She knew she was one of the very, very few who had witnessed anything other than a warrior in him, and for that she would be grateful for eternity. She had witnessed the _man_ while everyone else witnessed the legend. And she loved that man, no matter how wrong it was of her, and she was powerless to deny herself that pleasure.

Hector's funeral, if she was to admit to herself, was the most pitiful scene she had ever witnessed. With his absence she could feel just how important he had been to the very identity of Troy and the honor of the royal family. Paris, with all his immature rashness and lack of wisdom, was to carry Hector's burden from that moment on, but Briseis knew well that he had neither the power nor responsibility for such a task. The only two truly admirable people in the entire assembly were Priam and Andromache. Both were the epitome of composure, wisdom, and nobleness. Everyone else, herself included, was below their station, no matter their relation to the two beacons of Trojan pride. The third and most brilliant of them all was on his way to eternity, and she knew that he deserved the highest rank wherever he may be.

At sunset the fire was lit and Troy lost every trace of its greatest man and leader. As dusk settled a new atmosphere of desperation and heavy anguish fell upon them, threatening to suffocate them all before the Greeks even had the chance to attack them again. But they survived, just barely, and each Trojan returned to his private quarters to be left alone with his private thoughts.

As Briseis settled in her bed, she wished it had been her burning on the pyre that evening instead of Hector. There seemed nothing left to live for, and the future of Troy itself was so unstable and foreboding. All they could do now was wait, wait to see whether the gods would favor them over the Greeks or if they would perish in a less honorable way than Troy's finest had.

But all these thoughts and reflections were nothing when she compared them to her own personal loss. It no longer mattered if she survived or not, for a part of her had already died upon her return to Troy. After giving herself to Achilles she realized that she lived only for him, and now there was no reason to keep on living. The only relief she could attempt to have was through her dreams, so she struggled to find her way into the world of the unconscious where she could be in his arms once more, where nothing but the two of them existed. As her eyes closed ever so slowly, she drifted into that safe place and found him waiting, and nothing else mattered except his smile and the way it made every inch of her body tingle. She found him waiting, and her world was complete again.


End file.
